Marine fog has come
and gone all day, it is similar, the same,
the way Gaston B was obsessed with this very mist
I muse over its movements in particulate.
Blue skies peek through,
a thin cloud rolling by,
and it has settled, for Now
rested thick, wet and multiple times
it is a clear day, others say, just on the other side…
It does stop us, coordinately
from believing what we see. See evidently
I am most grateful for our limited scope,
as far as hope floats
it is the certainty we would choke
on the very air we need
if only we could see how Primo Levi detects the miasma
that hovers above all smoky cities.
A gritty plume, caustic and lye, and lie like
light always gets to you.
No machete necessary, under a chenille throw of clouds.
No doubt it always will get through to someone,
as it has always done,
before the big banging and seed sowing.
Before the smoke there must be fire,
Before we could relate to the sky speaking in sea,
Collecting the mood in glimmers and vapors
The fog finally makes it all clear.
It was something in the air, where the light broke in
And scattered array.
Image credit by Tuxyso / Wikimedia Commons, via Wikimedia Commons.
