What The Fog Keeps

The fog comes up from the low field and the field forgets its edges. By seven the fence is a rumor. By eight the barn is a soft idea of a barn. Sound arrives without a source, a dog or a gate or the memory of a dog. Everything is present and nothing is exact. This is the hour the world borrows back its own outlines, the way a name half-remembered hangs warm and shapeless on the tongue. The fog keeps what it touches. It will hand the morning back later, rinsed and a little strange, and pretend nothing was taken.