Ocean Vuong

Walking Alone

The fog presses in
like a second body.
A single spruce
at the edge of the field
already dimming.
So many words this morning
and only the breath says here.
Your hand extends
from the diaphanous wall.
I reach for it
and a door, the color of fog,
opens—life-deep.
You can speak now
you said. You can say
anything . . .
So I stood up
on my hind legs
and listened
to the clouds scraping
against the sky.

—for Li-Young Lee