Son of Fog

When the fog burns off and the air's pulverized

diamonds and you can see beyond the islands

of forever!—far too dramatic for me. It hurts

something behind my eyes near the sphenoid,

not good. I prefer fog with fog behind it,

uninflammable fog. Then there's no competition

for brightness, no Byron for your Shelley,

no Juno eclisping your Athena, no big bridge

statement about bringing unity to landmasses.

All the thought balloons are blank. The marching

band can't practice, even a bird's got to get

within five feet before it can start an argument.

Like dead flies on the sill of an abandoned

nursery, we too are seeds in the rattle

of mortality. A foglike baby god

picks it up, shakes it, laughs insanely

then goes back to playing with her feet.

I have felt awful cold and lonely and fog

has been blotting paper to my tears.

My dog is fog and I don't have to scoop

its poop with my hand in a plastic bag.

There are sensations that begin in the world,

the mind responding with ideas but then

those ideas cause other sensations.

What a mess. We stand at the edge

of a drop that doesn't answer back,

fog our only friend although it's hell

on shrimpboats. There, there, says the fog.

Where, where? You can't see a thing.