Fog is in my hallucinations,
Seeing becomes the invisible chore of discerning.
Fog is in my streets.
In the roads I wander, in the home I claim,
There is a perceptible sense of fog.
Yellow lights fist-sized illuminate a sun on the hill.
The roads lie, drunk with soupthick mist.
In my church there is fog;
In a little white house sit little white people--
Little white clouds are in each one: that of fog in everyone.
Fog is in my insanity
When I percieve myself but cannot
percieve the questions nor the answers
the wet universe gives, yet can truly feel
the milk of a little fog in my brain room.
It is not enough that I have taken in
A little fire because sunlight is only a
Precursor to joy.

01/31/2003

Posted on 09/21/2003
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