The past unfolds
like a heavy fog
unfurling over roofs.
It is the bedding we are
hopelessly wrapped
inside of by morning.
It sticks to our mossy outcrops,
to our bony landmarks and drips
within the sweet sticky pine sap
that lines our lungs
in our first exalted gasp
for the brisk briny air
of an open Northwest door.
We breathe it in all day long,
but only sense it with the rising sun.
It is tinged, somehow;
this scent from the surface
where risen bubbles burst;
what remains of the remains of sunken bodies?
of Orca whales?
of catches tossed back?
of missing persons ruled suicides?
There is a memory here
and another over there,
where I remember being with someone
who is no longer anywhere.
Gases of the decomposed roll in with the fog
to stir in freshly minted oxygen of Douglas Fir
and Sugar Pine.
The present bobs in the wake
of the past that went by.
What wave caused that wave?
Why are expressions of hello
identical to goodbye?

written on 10/11/2015 by: Matt Kane