Coffee tastes better with whis piece.

Beautifully eerie, but also deeply inward. The line “The path did not begin. / It narrowed as if remembering me” sets the tone immediately, and from there the whole piece keeps dissolving the boundary between self and place in a way that feels intimate rather than theatrical. “Fog… as an agreement between things / that no longer wished to be named” and “the pressure of sound having been removed” are especially strong, because they create unease without forcing it.

What gives the poem real depth is that the encounter is not with some simple external presence. It turns into “the absence of separation / I had mistaken for distance,” and then ends with “the quiet undoing / of the one who had come looking.” That’s where it opens up into something larger than atmosphere. Mysterious, controlled, and full of real thought.