This was meant to be about quiet
encroaching. Faded pines out the window
across the meadow,
torn paper lines, dark-blue-gray.
About fog horns in the night
rattling my fevered bones.
No wonder the dreams
were different. More sadness,
old broken relationships showing
up in clouded kitchens. No pen or paper,
I use the only device available.
Fog. It wants dog. Fog! It wants dog.
is a journalist, essayist, and poet based in coastal Maine. His writing has appeared in Esquire, The Guardian, and various literary publications.
