Fog at Brighton

By Etta Blum

Nothing has roots in the fog.
Nothing grows from anything.

The sky is full of moons
and everywhere is sky.

Roofs open to smile.

The distance to waves
breaking
is greater than surprise.

Alone in the fog as
in the earth alone.

Between the tall trash baskets
pigeons walk on the sand,
the bathers gone away.

With myopic eyes we strain
and knock at memory.
The ocean is not here.