Seen Through Fog

There’s a story behind
Staten Island Ferry
orange. I can’t tell
it but can hear its tone
revealed in a soothing voice-

over through early morning fog.
Routine commuting becomes heightened
by the transcendent
moments before
the marathon begins

on the Verrazano
Narrows Bridge. By a skyline
permanently scarred, by a keel
built with steel
from collapsed towers, by film

and TV footage of our favorite
characters crossing one way
or the other. Sometimes someone
who’s had too much
winds up where he started

without getting closer
to home. Color

declares, or hides, or widens
the channel for multiple
interpretations. Always the same
orange, always the same
distance either way.

Whose Gingerbread

Do they remember
months after the solstice? Who

will speak
for you tomorrow morning

before strange fog
clears? Tonight this parade

answers no questions.

The Smooth Mellow Pack

The color orange engulfs her
in hazy dreams—appears as a sheer
shawl to web her shoulders,

a pair of lace-up long boots
to hug her calves. It’s not the color
she has to relinquish

upon waking. Just the fog
that presses it down, packs it tight
against her chest.

Shape Shift

Vital signs appear in all directions—here
the universal symbol
for no longer choking. The color blue

has turned green
as mature redwood leaves
modest in their fog shroud.

She remembers how
to read them only when she steals
a moment from leaf litter beds

to refocus her mind
on what her eyes have been fixing
all along—this figure eight.

Ripplewood in the Redwoods

Across Highway One
from where I slept, from where a hummingbird swept
into the brush to alert me to another

day, I wait.

Fog never fully rolls back to reveal
those mountaintops but allows the sun to be exposed
and exposing

as hours progress. Seams between
sky, ocean, cliff
recede. I’m not waiting—I’m opening receptacles

to turn-outs and drop-offs and rock-ons.