The Fog Sets Us Apart
The valley’s only distinguishing meteorological mark
Settles in, some might say cat-like,
(Though I, respectfully, hesitate to animate a cold and vaporous phenomenon.)
And sets us apart.
From what? I ask.
It’s a dubious claim to fame,
Like a lecherous legislator or a homicidal husband.
In the fog,
Voices, human and mechanical, lose their shapes.
Lights, heavenly and incandescent, reflect only our separation.
It occurs to me—
The fog figures itself
(“tenor and vehicle,” if you speak the language),
So we ask it to “burn off” or “blow out.”
And we flee to the coast, which might be clear,
Or head for the hills.