The Fog glances at me, as if
I am a seventh morning
in black coat prayer.
Twice, I have been veiled by
The Fog.
Twice, I have ridden wounded winds
to secretly watch
dead men bathe in weakness.
I have hidden in The Fog from
sneer,
from shame. But, guilt has giant hands that reach
deep, plucking sin from a wrecked womb,
pulling it out,
into the open world.
The Fog glances at me because she
knows me. She floats toward me with her warm, white
blanket, wrapping me up,
away from sneer’s,
away from shame.
