Docenture: Fog

Landscape-as-subject is misunderstood. Clotted weather

fondles the earth, wet in the dark morning. Any trust felt

at journey’s onset transmogrifies, now dolor. What have you

left? Behind or in front of the seeker, mist threads each direction

with regret. Still, you traverse this immense and opaque hall.

Nearly colliding with dais, you find upon it a sculpture of

occlusion: Glass Box with Nest. Inside, an unhatched egg inset

in tufted eiderdown has forgotten to become. Your own lost-

ness occurred prior to labyrinth. You scour memory for shred

of bird but you are cursed. Fog lifts like mothlight. A vast factory

of flown, of lifeless wing. Ten-thousand mouse-colored wrens’
wrested. Vaguely—to the bones of your hand—these recall twist.