Fog Line
Half-moon in the camp dish.
Which dark night is this?
Bar of soap in its plastic bag.
We forgot the salt.
Gas station tea again.
This nylon breeze.
Fishing lure like sun on rocks.
Blue-faced mountain.
Was it West Virginia with the gas-station flags?
One thousand miles of corn.
Quick: the stove canister’s rattling gas.
Peas in the camp dish.
The soft pocket of a pack.
Look, I don’t want to start something.
Lakes unfolding like gloves on the dash.
What’s next?
Thunder on the river.
One hundred carefully said thoughts.
His hands drowning the gutted fish.
Its worms like tubes of morning.
My eyes at dinner.
All the lake tonight.
The impossible cream of mist.
Here, wade out to the stone.
Osprey!
Toes like meat gripping bone.
Dull moon in the camp dish.
Awake?
Another half-dressed morning.
I don’t want to put on clothes.
How Eve must have felt.
Bathing in the river.
What’s another city dressed as God?
The water…
Ribs poking through flesh.
His curved toes.
Another peanut butter sandwich.
Heating water in the camp dish.
Hot breath.
Silence stretching across all four states.
What day is this?
The ripe hand of God.
Stars and mesh.
I smell like sour wine.
Wet spot on a stone.
Do we look like fish?
Hair laughing in the wind.