Wednesday, July 10, 2013

Poem: Night Fog

This was published long ago, 2002, in a journal named Diner, which is one of my favorite journals of all time. My style was a bit different then. The themes remain. There were two editors at Diner then, I think their names were Eve and Abbey. I'm just not sure.

Best To All,

Owl

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Night Fog

my feet were scum on a lake
of the obscure, my sounds tripled
against a cricketless silence—heartbeat,
nostrils, rustles of Woolrich, all profane, visceral,
obvious, pathetic, extreme. i waited
for god to console me and,
having frozen, felt my soles begin to root,
my knuckles branch, my nape congeal
toward an acorn.

no god came. no hint.
a car shot by like a black squid
with glowing white inky propulsion,
and tentacles that splintered off shrubs.
somewhere dog squeals became sudden,
tore each others’ decibels until one
lacerated the many into a vicious decree.

no god came.
i thought they were Athena’s owls,
then i thought the Norns, but actually,
when the chill cut my newfound legs,
only lighthouses with big mouths,
three pimples on three butts of Maine,
cordoning importance around humanity.

1 comment:

  1. Actually I think this is the first time I've seen the word 'actually' in a poem. But I like it. Especially the dogs.

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