The fog comes in the night

when I am not ready,

with its dull teeth and

arthritic hands.

It seats itself at the table,

drinks from the final bottle

of last year’s wine.


All the heavenly bodies

are blacked out

on borrowed liquor.

The moon forgets to rise.

The stars tell me

not to wait up for the sun,

And I – I am high

on the inebriated mist:

where can I go

to empty my lungs?


The table is all wine-stained,

the bottle dried up.

The fog is expecting things of me

which I will not give.

In the morning, though,

I won’t remember

the questions it posed

or the answers

I – shivering – surrendered.


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