marketa looks through a file of my poems

until she finds these lines from a poem called   clarity on hwy 1

be clever. say it well. let the images speak for themselves—

but in the end there must be more than fog.

i know it is an older poem   i was using punctuation

i remember writing it   and i remember

the fog on hwy 1   north of san francisco

near point reyes   marketa says that my last poem

and many others   have been little more than fog

i would be taken aback by her bluntness

but i know her   and her motives   too well 

i also know she is right   i have lost myself in myself

i am clever   i say it well   i let them images speak for themselves

but in the end there is little more than fog