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Breath of Mist
Despite the forecast of this winter’s season
The sidewalk drowns in a warm sea of clouds and haze
As if the fog inside dusk’s head
Caused her to lose track of time
The floors of each ghost-silent house
Coated by another wispy layer of dew
For a moment I dream for the distant warbled stars
To be the soft fuzzy glow of streetlights
The shadows quiet; the path opaque
The afterglow disorients me
And I can barely distinguish between figures;
Either blackened bodies or spare trees
Piercing my lungs with smokey sickles
Swoos in eight hundred shots of brume
Like countless dull needles sharpened
By an exhausted obsidian whetstone
Enter the echoing crowd of thunder
Exit the flaming clouds
The sandy moon evolves to glass while I
Seek refuge under the feigned star
Almost losing to the scent of ash
in the lunar dispersing “mist”
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