In hollows of the land
in faults and valleys 
                      the white fog
bruised
             by blue shadows
a mirage of lakes

and in the human
faults and depths
                          silences
floating
               between night and daybreak
illusion and substance.

But is illusion
so repeated, known
                                each dawn
silence
           suspended in the
mind’s shadow

always, not substance
of a sort?
              the white
bruised
            ground-mist the mirage
of a true lake.