Fog

The fog is at times yellow
like the must of the wolfs back in February
the winds make idiot laughter of our poised walls
melting our fear of shoes and laws and facts....
The town has just reared its dead king from the white temple

II

Our fog is rapture
born of our time in the throes of stunned mania
the smoke oozes from your nose like powdered snow
are there indulgences of which the rains have failed to warn us?

by Luke J. Holt

Comments (1)

Great poem, like it.