Richard Bunch
A way of finding yourself
where lost fog clings. Veins of
remembered playlight begin to blur.
Steady heart, wave battalions
pound and blast. You cannot see
them, only savor a restlessness
that whomps as April’s blood.
Who you are erases here like a native
earth present in unseen praise.
Masks of rock jut out beyond
the sea and sadness.
Like the you you once thought you were
they appear to accept this orchestration,
a reminder that fogscapes
are the mind’s poem, those
questioning streets
borne in difference.
