To like the fog too much, writes
One in a good place to write,
Not like this place that thwarts space.
I like the fog too much, I
Beg a line to say for me—
Not that same fog, not those drugs,
That fuzz of apps, tanks, and screens—
The fog of life when it asks
For not much more than the breath,
Sun on the wall past the glass,
The words of this one who wrote
Or that one sprawled in the lap,
The fog of the thoughts that pass.
Yes, it’s blurred. No, fog has no
Points. Waves are not points, or not
When you don’t force them to be
Things you can count. Don’t you dare.
