FOG

Fog blurs the faces in the family portraits.
Nothing separates their fate from yours.

Days like this, a part of you breaks off,
speaks in a voice tainted by poor health,

impending war. The dog scratches at the door,
whines to be let out. You let him out.

The sky drops over the chalk cliffs. Lobstermen
come back with empty traps, maybe a boot

that floated up from the carcass of a whale.
On the jetty, someone has left a wetsuit,

arms spread wide on that vacant space of rock,
as if embracing a thing which has no name.