Some left over words from another post and borrowed words not exactly put to music. Boundaries blur. The streetlamp a smudge. Steps behind you muffled. Stop. When you stop. The roots that clutch. Do they follow? Who is the figure in the window, watching? Nerves are bad tonight, yes bad. Just the street and the fog that dissolves and distorts.…
There’s the fog of war and there’s the poetry of fog. A recent heavy mist in my patch of the mid-Hudson valley brought fog and poetry to mind. Not the yellow fog of an old-time London peasouper particular but rather the mysterious wreathing whiteness of an English mist in a damp December countryside – the unsullied sister of smog. And…