by Michael Symmons Roberts
Mist can be a form of mercy,
all precision gone, all detail lost.
Cataracted hawks hunt woods
for motion-blur, then stoop
into the slipstream of their prey.
I pray for days like these,
when cars are lit cortèges.
As for oceans, fog is respite
from the ache of holding surface
as a clear line named horizon.
Forensic summer gone, now we
live in close-up: flaked face of brick
frostbitten, verdigris and icicles
on statues. A world drawn tight.
Look up: stars are gone. It’s just us.