but the shoreline doesn’t know it,
not with that hugging morning fog,
puffing like second breath
inches from my nostrils.
The weather’s like an anchor
that only the sun can lift,
but it prefers to have us mist-bound,
wandering the streets like flotsam,
air unsteady in all directions.
Nets hang over the sides of boats
but here is a net of a different kind.
It’s cast upon the human bailiwick.
It holds assumptions captive.