Partial eclipse this afternoon,
fog too thick to notice,
further proof it’s all one stuff,
mist, shadows, the moon.

I cannot say to what ends
all day this thought has preyed:
the death of my friends’ fathers,
those, unknown, of Father’s friends.

Things I once thought don’t
make a whit of difference
anymore, a jot of sense.
Not by wit I live, but wont.

Now night has come so close
alone in bed at last
the only sound, my breath apart:
foghorns, remote, morose.


From my depressive baroque period in Berkeley, which I have been able to date astronomically to 30 May, 1982, at which seasonal point marine layer fog can cover the skies an entire day. See also]