I think of the fog in the lowlands this morning,
the low, long, gradual barges

of thought, how that place you see imperfectly,
beautiful, you say, or must be,

becomes the grey
you let slip, its hold you let go of.

It’s strange thinking
you forget,

but, I understand
you, always imagining what I was,

your hand sweeping your hair
away from your eyes

the yellow cornfields left trembling.