I woke
then walked
into fog
from the nearby creek
to shroud the trees
and street
as if
in clothes
of the dead
the bald ugliness
of each day’s
so we go on
fumbling down
the trail
in the dark
our hands fall
on rough bark
and we look up
beyond the black leaves
above the trees
the moon flows quietly
behind clouds
beneath the talk
I swim my past
drowning in shallows
(from “Sonnet,”  a work in progress, Second Quatrain, first line, syllables 1,2 and 3)

(January 2012)

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