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Fog Horns

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The loneliest days,   
damp and indistinct,   
sea and land a haze.   
   
And purple fog horns   
blossomed over tides—   
bruises being born   
   
in silence, so slow,   
so out there, around,   
above and below.   
   
In such hurts of sound   
the known world became   
neither flat nor round.   
   
The steaming tea pot   
was all we fathomed   
of   is and   is not .   
   
The hours were hallways   
with doors at the ends   
opened into days   
   
fading into night   
and the scattering   
particles of light.   
   
Nothing was done then.   
Nothing was ever   
done. Then it was done.

Source: Poetry

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This poem originally appeared in the September 2004 issue of Poetry magazine

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Fog Horns

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