On Fog Poem by Elizabeth Robinson

Gray, soft, tidal. One had no need to decide
whether to trust it. A key that is good in any lock. It recurs. It told us
about skin. How skin
is a form of sleep, visible from no measurable
distance. Yes, skin
reassured us.
Coming closer. Lock-picking drowse.

Sleepless
lock wrapping its leg
and skin into the burr
of the key. Sweat, curl. Lost in sweat,
sleep hushes its own bolt and catch. Lost in
surge. Yes, a cloud that stole by us as we implored it for sleep, asked
it to put our hair and pelt

back to us. It trusts us, and not
us trusting it. Regular as

gray is regular.