Whether or not you're
there to notice
first thing in the morning
there is mist—
low on cold hills
always somewhere in the distance
outside your door
in between the city you live in
and the rest of the
world which purportedly exists
blue as the first church bells'
dull round ringing
still lying heavy in its furrowed beds
shrouded by mazes
of dark woods, and dreaming—
just as you were a minute ago—
of being
touched by warm light
made gradually
unafraid, and rising
one more time to
become the entire air.
