Poetry

Phantom

It had the brow of Foucault
or maybe Agamben. Fluid,
unsettling, always on its way
to somewhere else, flowing

like morning mist, curling
curious fingers around
the trees, pleased with the forest
and the moist rotting ground.

Dipping so low where it kissed
the earth it might not exist
there at all.  Only the briefest
pause hints at a raised brow,

a hill forming somewhere beyond
the known horizon, casting shadows across
the ground. Coming to rest, finally,
on the verge of lost and found.

Kay Cunningham