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Fog.

Stamped: 12.4.09

Night is the greatest
insulation.

When the curtain of speckled
black falls
so too does a particular claustrophobia.
A tight intimate blanket.

We are adolescent lovers
steaming in the car.
We are lovers indulgent,
bathing.
We are a bonfire in a warehouse.

The windows and mirrors
become smoky--muddled.
Clouded.

And when morning
unlocks the dark box
the clouds dissipate.

Another day of doldrums.
Another night of smoke and mirrors.

« Home
The Poet's Descent. »
Anthem for the boy on the Arlington train. »
A fragment? Of something? »
I only, and Barnabas. »
penance. »
another random poem i discovered »
sew my lips shut, will you »
whoa; when did I write this? »
harness. »
the fallow. »

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