Our
Blanket Fog
by
John Milbury-Steen
A
foggy morning.
Still my fingers
comb
your long hair
while you sleep
and my thoughts
roam
from grot to ridge,
from touching
to perfume,
and I may seek
your palm as ample
room.
The sun is muffled
and his seraphim.
They cannot make
me board the paradigm
--
leave
those curves,
the loveliest
of fates,
and
catch the train!
Our blanket fog
frustrates
the
morning sun from
shining on these
streets.
Rows
of buildings sail
as blurry fleets
in
misty bays in
front of Golden
Gates.
The sun can't
see us lingering
deadbeats,
but
if he could, he'd
fry us with rebuke.
The
radiated rays
of our banked
nuke,
boss
and duty, nagging
almanac,
are
trying to burn
our fog. That
fierce attack,
is
not advancing
and is even stuck,
his chariot immobilized
amuck.
The
fog must be these
bedclothes that
the sun
has gotten too
entangled in to
rise.
©
2007 by John Milbury-Steen
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