Better than coffee, better than tea,
better than a cold shower with the bathroom window
cracked onto the icy day, inviting in the suave
efficacy of fog.
Cobwebs are swept clear,
a brute beauty houses itself gnomelike
in each brittle lozenge of reflected gold.
A sweater warms the scrub-bruised body,
but not too much, temptation lying
somewhere out beside the open road,
not in the upstairs bedroom, where the cat
rounds on its own tail, bats a rubber band
to soggy death.
The canvas gloves
are stiff with frost and stored with the
shears and wire in the bottom
of the wheelbarrow, patted down with
grim-faced sentiment. The leather gloves
will serve fog’s purpose, fingertips a larva
of moisture, the black stain of diesel
Delphic in its encouragement.
The mind turns over
like an engine, the siren shifts
from stage-fright to fury, the fog slow-dances
the mountain pass like a band of white-robed gypsies.