Fog, thick

Fog, thick
condenses and drips
spangling so
the dark hoods of cars
dripping down from the street lamp
the wet black rubber cables
suspended in mist.

I’m in love with it, there.
fog thicker than lust
chewier, denser
more clean-smelling too.

Fog, thick
through which trains rumble by
three-passenger-empty
blank faces, black splotches
against the red seats, against the yellow light
cursing the velvety near-dark
outside of the mist.

It teases me, there.
fog thicker than murder
chewier, denser
more meat-smelling too.

Fog, thick
as I smoke, a non-smoker
burning her lungs
on vegetarian cigs
a secret smoke-searching
smoke-breaths blending blithely,
seamlessly into the mist.

It dazzles me, there.
fog thicker than milk
chewier, denser
more soap-smelling too.

Fog, thick
to finally uncover
the San Francisco of poems
after too many years
not the piss and the shit
not the dirty men leering
but the peace in the mist.

I feed off it, there.
fog thicker than sin
chewier, denser
more pale-smelling too.

Fog, thick
to live low-down cloud-like
nestled, breast-hill-like
amongst obscured buildings
from that hum existential,
a moment’s respite
in the mist.

~ by kingzoko on July 6, 2011.

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