I watched the marine fog roll in yesterday.
At first it was just a tongue tip up the straight,
but over the course of the afternoon,
it fingered it’s way in to every orifice,
between every island, until it breathed
it’s way up the bank, onto my street;
tickling me with it’s wetness
and causing gooseflesh bumps.
The evening became stage lit
with sudden inspiration and I laughed
with pleasure as I walked in the fog.
Some force-field of silence
veiled all sounds and cloaked my whereabouts,
so I could fancy myself alone.
Thinking accordingly, and acting accordingly,
I touched myself to prove that I was real
and that the fog was real,
and we were.
words: Shelley Haggard, Canada (video poems)