Poetry by Jeremy Hight

Fog

Jeremy Hight

Some day and month 2000

They are human fog here. There once were faces. Late evening at the art openings in Chinatown. A scrap of fog turns to me here in this space in memory and silence drizzles where once was surely something about theory or news of a friend involved in something somewhere now also washed down to a smooth near nothing here.

Another fog bank surely was a group of fellow Cal Arts alumni, it drifts now along a wall that shifts color and size that once was a gallery.

I look upward now in this memory and the sky is infinite knit stars then rain then low clouds, a menagerie of stand ins, like the characters in an errant dream that surely once were some tangential acquaintance, tethered by names, locations, old stories soon to rot clean but hanging so tenuous.

I turn and the fog moves in all directions, one surely once calling me by name. WM