Lake Superior Fog

Ancient Volcanic stone rapped by waves. You next to me, your arms beading like morning grass with fog. My lashes beading black mascara Fishonto my knuckles, no tears. There are men fishing, salmon and trout rubbing scales with stones, the only time of year. Grey-bearded stubble sharper than spider’s teeth. A cavern below us, water rushing sounding like moth wings. The white dust becomes water and rises from the cracks. Crooked eyebrows, you watch lines cast into grey but I can’t see them.

 

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