Still the fog. Still the little waiting heart.

Let’s suppose everything
we’ve been told is true

The hurricane dervishing
up the coast won’t stop here

The morning balloon with
its leaf-peeping cargo

Won’t anchor in the valley
to exchange passengers

The fog you mistook for
a cloud won’t settle on

Your heart the son on
the operating table

Won’t stay asleep the
grandfather you barely

Knew who could peel
an apple in a single

Unbreakable strand
won’t rise from his

Chair and fall with the
pulse of his own blood

The motes in the sunlight
won’t settle things

Still the fog. Still the little waiting heart.

Won’t fall apart the
attic won’t sigh for lost

days won’t remember
the fog the little waiting heart.