Standing in this foggy rain,
it is reasonable, no, expected,
to mark a little obscure,

so let me begin to explain
why poetry would have no need
to be written if we

all stood here right now
in this foggy rain, cold
dampness seeping through,

its heavy cedar and pine
its drizzling down the world
our not seeing past

that first hemlock, hanging
dark in this foggy rain,
stillness clawing the birch