The Fog

June 21, 2016

Light falls across the fog. The fog is dark.
So nature is growled-out and groveling once again.
A course of roses, a course of smells—
smells not quite strong enough to be a course
for the fog, though, for this perfume has
no essence, no parade, no grace, nothing left
save ravening beasts caught in a glass masquerade.
No mistresses to clown for, no real masters
to play with. He’s so hungry—he’d be a fool to eat
what they call dog food.  Call it fog fuel.
Enter the watery mouth. It circles the bone.
The crunch is like a wafer from the sky.
Can this be flesh taken from a self-canned man?
Do you understand, sir, all that I am?


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