The fog makes monsters of us all,

and only by approach we recognize

human fashions and features, a pleasant hullo

(or, too close, other gestures and intentions. Those 

smack home like a chocolate box full of stones.)

---

The causeway splits salt marsh from ocean, 

two worlds that share a greenish wind,

and carries one from Clamshell Lane to town

on the changeful course of a sidewinder’s advance.

Past gulls and deer and strawberry fields,

clay courts, cyclists in harlequin,

a man with a tire iron, 

lilies opening in a row—

all silvered quiet til the sun burns off their cover

and the gentle fears that stand one’s hairs on end.

Then all can countenance, and “Good morning!” 

breaks the day.