Check out this insightful essay on Via Negativa. And on the subject of fog, I’ll offer this poem. Incidentally, she still hasn’t called. But it hasn’t been quite five years yet. She will, right? She will.

CERTAIN STREETS

Time passes, so I get up

every morning. I have

soap that smells insanely

like spring in Ireland,

or a waterfall. I brush my hair

and talk to the dog while

calculating how long

it has been since you called.

Seven months, so I drive to work.

The yellow fog burns back

to the water’s edge and leaves

a brilliant path for me.

I slip along the edge of clarity

and listen as the stock market drops

through the morning light.

If time goes on, I have lunch

in the park and everything

hums through the day;

computer, printer, people

and lights. At three o’clock

I have coffee, then drive home

at dusk through certain streets

where I see you float, silk

on a breeze of unremitting weeks.

Should I call? I’m sure

there will be time, some morning,

evening, afternoon, when the clock

is resting in a shadow on the wall.

Kyle Kimberlin

2000