“The Fog”

white wet shroud wraps me

mystery and quiet’s essence:

my hike witgh old friend.*


  • (This: “The Fog” joins “Playground Skeletons” and “‘penetrable” as a trio to the morning’s fog, thick enough at the 16th Street hill overlooking downtown Sanford, Florida, to give sight but seventy-five feet or so from mid-hill just to the outer edges of the woodlot there.  It’s been a long time we were wet-wrapped white with still Fall freshness and peach.  Just watch out, J, for the lidless eyes unburning down the street on silent silver charges instead of honest internal combustion.)