A map of sorts

 

This is the measure of fogs

the loose grasp of wet soil

the measure of tendrils that shadow my fingers

the smoke that lives between

silence and poems.

 

This is the place where mosses slowly

forget to be trees; where they only gather

and green.

 

This is the place

where the emptiness between sentences

inhabits all interstices between touch and gooseflesh.

 

This is the place where footfalls of an outsider (the one exiled from of your skin)

disappears and love wanders into a fog.

Reviews

[Corset]

The image of the first two lines that open up into the spiral of thought as to what fog and tendrils are made of is so sad to me, the fumes of silence and poems or lack thereof, how moss becomes forgetful as it grows fat upon the trunks of hosts. I loved the use of the word interstices in stanza three, how the spaces between can tangibly lift the hair on your arms in anticipation of the next line, the image of loneliness the last stanza gives, of lost or relinquished hope drifts and disappears, as tendrils, as fog, what you can see ahead limited by futility. it has such a burden it carries... this poem.

[Abhra]

The poem travels to light. It's getting lighter and lighter. :)

[Corset]

The part about gathering and greening feels light :)

[Ed Hart]

yes, well, this is how we learn to be topographers...we are such sensitive beings, 'falling' in love and all that business, you'd think that the fog was our preferred destination, as though they were teaching classes in it, and we wanted to get a good grade, or save up enough of it to write a decent poem...but if this is what it has taken to drag you back into these parts, just know there's one cowboy glad enough to see you, and if you are not well, at least getting better

[Abhra]

Thanks Ed! It's always good to see you here!