I think of the fog in the lowlands this morning.
How something that can’t be perfectly seen
is the thing you want to reach for,
you say is beautiful –
becomes the very thing
you constantly lose, never quite having.
It’s strange thinking you forget.
But, I can’t grasp you, either,
you, pretending to be blinded by your hair
before I sweep it from your eyes
the yellow cornfields left trembling.