Fog

The fog is tired
like an old horse.

It emerges
to find some help,

needing dental surgery,
the teeth have grown tree roots.

It rests the bottoms of its
rotten jaws
upon the red ground,
unwraps the gauze and ropes,
closes and opens the large black ball of an eye.

The leaves have gone mad
and killed themselves,
leapt from

the tops of
empty pails, skewered
themselves on the
tails of rats.

They make a bed full of
yellow razors.

Their notes are spelled
in
cut off beards,
down the drain,

their skin is bleached
with temperate weather.