Hands in Fog

Brooke DiDonato


The fog, visual genocide,

Pries all paraphernalia

From my blistering irises

Only blankness will serve this day.

Patient like the needles on gorse

I wait mouth as wide as a drain

And suckling as if the air

Might hold some molecule

Capable of sweetening this sobriety

And how many candles

Were extinguished

That you should rise now

With such vengeance?

A vulturine army collecting

On these static grievances

Oh fog, you have made me a chameleon

So scarce I cannot even find myself

Not even a thought

To resuscitate the previous

I shall die in this amnesiac sea,

Flailing as Medusa’s vicious cortege

Voice in tatters, hands white as soap


I have been organizing paperwork all day, very monotonous work not particularly inspiring!