CLAYTON LONGSTAFF

Phenomenology of Fog

A silver tipped horn 
couldn’t pierce its sleep—
beside ourselves
in gortex over fleece pyjamas 
we blearily watched
a hook cast 
over crowns of Gerabaldi, 
of Asperity, 
befall vestigial 
salmon bellied horizons where
line & logic meet

break at the lynx
padding down its mountain
in search of another sustenance, another wilderness—
this morning 
a small knocking at a water’s edge
was all I knew of my neighbour’s change of heart, 
imagine: for a lifetime
we couldn’t see each other
eye to eye,
not like this—

in a village where everybody’s gone,
who will find me

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