A Voice in the Fog


Every word clangs
like false notes on a
harpsichord--
it gets louder every day,
as I realize more and more
how meaningless
each word is.

The fog has climbed
over the mountain--
can I see my hand?

There is a dark shape
in the fog,
a figure that I just can't
identify,
but I know
that you know the reason--
the place where he goes
is really your place.

I am watching,
but he is not looking
because the fog eats him,
licks his throat until
he cannot speak--

he only laughs.