4 August 2019

By Philip Kuepper

In the distance, the mournful
horn of a ship answers
the mournful foghorn,
as it slips past certain death
on the shoals, treacherous,
even on the clearest days.

Here, where the river mouths the bay
that, in turn, bays at the ocean,
the fog had seen fit to lift,
then decided against it,
and fell, again, enveloping
boats cheek to jowl nosing the banks.

An ashy-white scrim covered all.
The whole of the town had been erased,
as though by some Biblical punishment.
I was uncertain what sin I had contributed.
It is next to impossible to please the inscrutable.
The knife of my thought whittled a length of fog,

as it hung there, obstinate,
unmoving, unmoved.
I whittled it into the shape
of a ship, with sails,
thinking that might move it.
The fog ignored the hint.

(2 June 2019)