We are crossing the Sands when the haar
unfolds, and every shape becomes

anonymous and heimlich, like the dead
we think about in hymns

and churchyards, other selves
continuous with gravity and light

and undeclared;

and if I slow a moment, while you go
a few steps further, everything is blur,

the life continuous, no point of view,
only the fog along the water’s edge

where anything could happen, mare
incognitum, rumoured, like the soul.