The Fog

The only thing November gave me time for.

Yesterday,
I fell through the autumn fog
and died at a bus stop.
There was poison in my coffee:
the memory of a memory.
My corpse went to work,
haunting the shipyard
in the rain
till dusk.

Today,
I rot in a bed of little thoughts.
decompose between their tiny jaws.
Outside, the fog roars--
the passage of your voice along the nerves of time.
I am consumed by years,
devoured by months
and petty solitude,
alone.

Tomorrow,
I will walk this world
of broken bridges and hobbled ships;
I will search for the dawn
and for resurrection
in the glare of your headlights
always
until the dark
has burned
away.

Reviews

[Brittany Zedalis]

This is good and interesting.

[.]

~ it's very challenging to comment on such a perfect piece of poetry... every image is astounding and yet so real and earnest... the closing stanza is particularly beautiful because i relate to it at a very personal level... ~ this piece is sheer excellence in poetic expression...