in the mist
as if dark-grown, as spindly as whims,
off the gray coast where there's no horizon
but one we infer, where they walk
or sleepwalk, in their middle distance
considering all this
in their absent and abstracted way,
three-petalled, unpeeling themselves: loves me
loves me not—unpicking the knot of the winds,
a twist of faded ribbon tied round the idea,
no more than that,
of the trunk of a tree ...
as if we'd stumbled on the pale machinery
that drives the weather, the obsession
in it, like the distance at the heart
of too much love. Like a stalker
in love with a ghost.
Like a wedding in gray.
The Manhattan Review
Fall / Winter 2014-15