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Baltic Fog Notes
Seven days all fog, all mist, and the turbines pounding
through high seas.
I was a plaything, a rat's neck in the teeth of a scuffling
mastiff.
Fog and fog and no stars, sun, moon.
Then an afternoon in fjords, low-lying lands scrawled
in granite languages on a gray sky,
A night harbor, blue dusk mountain shoulders against
a night sky,
And a circle of lights blinking: Ninety thousand
people here.
Among the Wednesday night thousands in
goloshes and coats slickered for rain,
I learned how hungry I was for streets and
people.
I would rather be water than anything else.