It is a cold sea, a kelp of shades,
Tide rises to the rock level from black fathoms.
At the windowed shack, a fog is born,
A grayness assembles with the color of moths,
Envious gulls winging in discarded moonlight.
Fog consumes with a deep hunger,
Deep as a breakwater depth, its mouth sucking
The maundering wastes, silently in a darkening air;
It leaves the crabs to rattle, descending into the sea—
It thickens, wearing blue shells in uncoiled waves.
Fog is a courier for salty aphrodisiacs— for doddering
Ships, it leads them into amorous crags and jetties,
Metal bones for fish. And then the virgin tears,
Death knells in a cry for help; isolation for the drowned,
Withering in a durable grayness, face down in a sea.
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