Feeling, they say, or mood, or the sound
the mountain makes in the March thaw.
But i'm not fooled. It's all a reflection.
Too deep in the fog to be read, but you're there,
too deep in the fog to be heard, but i'm here,
presenting the words one after the next,
erasing the world until all that is left
are invisible lines connecting our absences.
—after "Itself Now," by Mark Strand.
