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
but, I understand
you, always imagining what I was,
your hand sweeping your hair
away from your eyes
the yellow cornfields left trembling.