We inhaled fog on the Golden Gate
along with traffic exhaust.
Foghorns cried names
we did not recognize.
Car horns, names we gave ourselves.
From this high, you said, there is no good
way to fall. We scrunched our fingers
to encapsulate the small
fragility fog brings – how, in a moment,
everything can change / fog
of ghosts rippling waves from long-
passed boats / fog of sitting in silence,
windows down / fog of steel cable’s
fading red / fog of missing
what we lost while sun cuts a way
James Croal Jackson’s poems have appeared in magazines including The Bitter Oleander, Lines+Stars, and Rust+Moth. He is the winner of the 2016 William Redding Memorial Poetry Contest via The Poetry Forum. He lives in Columbus, Ohio. Visit him at https://jimjakk.com.
Pingback: Fog | James Croal Jackson