The fog is hanging outside the big
Bay window as if it thinks it is canvas,
And I am blind.
This house built behind a rusty
Seawall smells of a brandy brown
Dependence and grandma’s White Linen.
A scent I will later wear, but
She doesn’t know that now.
The storm is forming cannon
Blasts of warm fishy yellowness,
And I want to run from the waves
Which grow – and intensify their
Thrashing on the old seawall.
She has started the dishwasher,
So the room is one big roaring rush
Of swishes perforated with talk of sleep.
I am tired,
But the storm is alive and the smokestacks
Across the bay are blinking at me
Through a small slice in the fog.
They are waiting for me to join them
In the gigantic grey.
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