Monday, April 3, 2017


trying to part curtains of fog    fingers leave translucent streaks
that quickly turn opaque         I can just make out
the broken shards on the table               but can’t picture
the vessel they once formed           fingers of mist
close around everything          I reach for where
your hand was         there’s nothing but a cold spot
in the air         even in my mind
the things of the world            are partially erased          
I try to draw them back in                  but the lines
are indistinct and shaky              I close my eyes
but even the darkness is not                   as black as it once was
the void is watered down              awash with gray
I hear the muffled sounds of shots
but they’re blanketed by static and
I was probably mistaken and they’re
quickly forgotten       and how did
that glass get broken        and what did it
once hold, did we drink it all, did it spill,
did it merely evaporate    I don’t remember
I only know that my hands are wet
and my throat is parched     and I’m breathing that fog
deep into                    my lungs

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