FOG

She said, “Come! Look at the fog down the street...”
    From the window
I looked out with her, as the fog hovered
    like phantoms, pillars of icy air,
& the rain poured, washing the brain-drain of Spring
    into gutters—
Phalanx, physique of the earth,
    concrete of the day
like being interrupted while writing a poem—
    it seems dyed in the wool—

Forever a silk-spot in my heart, like bone
    not yet ossified over a membrane
that gives rise to it. The fog soothes—
    vehicles’ headlights, like orbs;
faintly luminous
    vaporous glows
throbbing through the threshold—
   
On the ceiling is a gray moth
    that landed on me the day before,
landing on my shirt where my heart would be,
    directionless, yet free upon the
lull of the cosmos,

my heart now beating on the ceiling
    with a moth that has its wings outstretched
like a continent—
    the inner-harmony keeps the earth spinning.
Soon, the sound of silence with soothe;
    the noise of the world will have been pruned by persuasion.
The physiognomy of affection,
    with its enchanting phonetics
& again I looked out of the window
    as the nimbus hovered
like peppery blankets of swarming gnats
    the afternoon before.
Perhaps this is what it is like
    when birds fly out of their color.