Fields Of Fog

As I sat looking out over the dreary fields of fog

I remembered the pores of skin on your legs

how
they laid out with the occasional reddish brown freckle

There was something incredibly normal about this skin

Was it just that I was used to it?

Was it of common genetics, duplicated over and over?

Or maybe was it rare and specific, did it hail from a
certain village in Ireland or Sweden somewhere or
maybe it was even France, moving amongst the
barley fields?

The timid moments of self-doubt I have felt on those legs
and then lay with them as conquering heroines

In a way it was like looking at your legs was like
looking across a field in ancient Europe
an amalgamation somewhere
a gathering for mine eyes to look upon them

To remember them in low light in bedrooms

as the fields of fog advance on wayward hearts

out in Briscoe County, Texas and the field larks sing

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