The night fog's come down.
The known edge of the world unselved,
the white-out against the window
and the radio histing the full
atmospheric scale between stations
comprehensively out of tune.
Someone's talking out there
but the night fog's come down:
a car comes and goes out of nowhere,
lighting the invisible and its afterglow.
Off, there's a town: its solids,
its muted soundings below
the sudden broadsides and dark
enormity of the nightlife,
the near miss of the eyes,
below the rough selvage of road
or cloud where you are seeing the wood
through the trees the fog has made
ragged, open-ended. Somewhere
in your house there is a forest.
Someone is talking there.
Bloodaxe Books / DuFour Editions
Copyright © 2012 by Jane Griffiths
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission