There’s someone, possibly hurt, missing.

     (These planks of wood are proof.)

There’s a hole somewhere.

     But that’s only part of the story I pieced

together from bits of shipwreck—

     the impenetrable fog, the disfigured

mess, makes meaning of all this.

     One black boot was washed up, its laces gone.

Somehow I know to look for the other. I stand

     near the sea but can’t see past the fog. Useless.

But still, I look and find, I think, something

     silent, and impassable, something the map

could never have predicted.