What the Fog Doesn’t Touch

a day of clover,
light sickness passing
without ceremony,
our luggage loafing
as we were, there where we left it,
upright, lying, particoloured and
mudstained,
light breeze, strange cityless
sounds—some unseen ocean,
some unseen troupe of mandrake
wraiths from the plains, all crying
in unison, our tea steeping,
our bodies sleeping,
our souls exploring whatever
the fog dared not touch.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can also donate some of your hard-earned dollars down below—that’s money to me, for free!

 

Gabriel Muoio

$1.00

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