Soon, Boats

Soon, Boats

The future, now:
fog. The bottoms
of trees cocooned
in cotton batting,
the water’s glass
tabletop boatless,
fingerprintless.
What could happen
is vapor, air, oldest
pieces of land
veiled. Soon, boats,
maybe bridges,
maybe the death
of the water, or
hundreds of children
running, whooping,
shaking the afternoon
from the morning.
But now, only this
shore, water and pines
and fog that do not
know you.