Ostrov—Town That Easily Fogs Over

In that town bellow the hills

fog is the commonest artist,

brushing off the world—

to make space for wonder.

Like those frequent flicks

by the sinking eyelashes

from a woman strolling

with a new art statement

your way through a street

when time and all else

is lifted and effaced

for a petite moment

in those countless strokes

and most minute movements

running in a breathless play

over the keys laid down

and just then found

inside—on the heart

with all the music ripe

and ready to sing and sin

with beauty in one sound

in remembering and new knowing

that those eyelids and those winks

may be like that fog—the air’s bloom,

just  many soul’s wings awakened

in the unseen somewhere and over

one more frontier—on some other
side of seeing—in someone else’ eyes.