Visibility.
I have no illusions.
When I roll towards you at dawn, I can't see you in the fog.
We simply memorized each other.
I read a story about a giant who couldn't
see his tiny wife for all the clouds drifting
around his huge, sad head.
He'd stroke the tops of fir trees
thinking he'd found her hair.
In another version, his wife turned into an egret.
Her strong wings brushing her husband's face.
Then she fell into the sea weighted down
by his immense tear.
Let me tell you this.
I miss your shadow, too.
But I know it waits above the fog.
Black as a shadow of the oak you saw in your dream
when you woke up almost happy.
I know our town's invisible.
The pilots on the way to Alaska think they're over the sea.
Even if they glimpsed a light through a rift in the clouds,
they call it a ship loaded with timber for the South.
Still, I hear those planes.
Last night, on the satellite map,
I saw a land without clouds.
Remember, I groped for your hand.
Suppose the men go barefoot.
Suppose the women owned fans.