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
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 read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s