It isn’t fog
past the far hills so much as haze
the trees are paper cutouts in relation to
a strip of black paper scissored
into a stiff, exact outline
stationed at the ridge
the blue muted behind it
and the whole momentarily like an old print
you’re looking at
though you could just as well be a peasant in it—
small, hunched,
neat bundle at your back
making your way up the mountain.
The earth’s soft new green
on the hillside means it has been raining
the unmoving ships out in the bay
like stickers pressed
to a lightweight board
dipped in silver—
how did you find yourself here?
no elsewhere, no inch
you idiot
the mountain blotted with benign forms
of cows set into its terraces, who chew and shit
square-assed with enormous faces staring out
it isn’t you they’re looking at—