White Fog

I can't see the white fog
Between the green spruce--
I can see words;
I mean, I can read this,
But the weave
And chunk
Of Emily Carr-hillsides
Won't register.

I'm unplugged,
With no Clapton-maestro
To guide me;
I'm an iceberg
Aborted through a
Glacial cervix
As wide as the Amazon:

I'm a vase in a closet!
A calculator with 1.1 volts
Instead of 1.5!

I feel a weird fog nestled
Between axons and dendrites,
And I can't smell the spruce
As pungent as baking
Bread.

Perhaps I should commit some
Act of kindness,
To bring it all back,
To make my blood red.

But I'm alone,
A memory-stuffed trunk
Stashed in an attic.
I'm closed,
Searching for the sky
Through ship-lap
And shingles.

I'm a white fog
Between green spruce.


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