Morning Mist

Mist takes the low streets.Glass first.Then rails.Wet paint.Black wire.At one cornera painter stops walking.Across the streeta crow turns its head.Three blocks latera radio loses a songhalfway through.A door openswhere nobody was waiting.A chair is carried downstairs.The same mistpasses both places.Nothing written in it.Nothing spoken.Still,everyone seemsto have heard something.Stopped under a poleuntil the mist moved on.The wire kept humming.