Seeking a place to pause,
fog wheels and eludes the
white tongues of tides,
bedding down the tiny
boats and cottages into
graphite-colored graves.
Sky descending or water
rising and an abstract earth’s
releveling. sight defers
to sound and the harbor’s
soft slurring is slowly
swallowed, curling into
ear in a dull, nautical moan.
Even the further field’s pink
blaze of fire-weed runs
to gauze in oyster-gleam.
The waning of form to specter
draws us into this aberration
of tidal calm, glistening in
liturgical light like some
exquisite vestment woven
from never-lasting dew,
viscid pearl and wheat-
yellow strands of spider silk.
