Fullness of being (identity theft)
Mark Vogel
Unsure this morning turning cold,
lost in trees and shadows, in pink/purple
uncertain light, still in too real dream.
No sign clamors in the blustery swirl, as if the day
waits for new skin to harden, familiar forms
to emerge. A wintry bite pours
from up high, filling in the low as I walk
the trail with a history, having already seen
a trout’s explosive flight, the black and tan
hound smelling the wind, a hissing prehistoric
possum fleeing the porch. The gray clouds
cluster, covering the thin sun,
and in the spitting wind the front forces
head-bent obedience. Shivering in my layers,
I look for the obvious, knowing that
in the night-chasm the land shifts and re-forms,
that somewhere close a place in line is emerging
where glue in the unraveling
surface is obvious for all to see.