Poem: Marine Layer
To the residents of far away precincts, in states where
a vote for staunch defenders of the Holy Cross means one extra ticket to the carnival of
Heaven, the shroud of velvet mist represents a shroud,
like the one in Turin.
Fog equals ennui.
The sun-baked, though, see the cloud on the ground as a welcome scrim, a diffusive curtain behind which another day’s comedy
(or, should things go badly, the other)
plays out according to the morbid script.
The sky comes to us and we go to another place without leaving our bed.
