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spysgrandsonPoems
tonight--my walk there was fog, a rare vapor on these prairies perhaps there   because I had just read of London, and German bombs falling through its mythic miasma, though the only sound that disturbed this nocturnal glaucomic vision was a lone siren, a fire truck, vanished into the ether, to save a life I suppose, since there was no fire there was, on the next block in halogen haze a fox; I know you you ate the fat black pet hare the neighbors mourned   tonight, you, and I were on a stroll--I tracked you just to see your fine tail, hear your soundless pads on the pavement, knowing the sight and silence of you were as rare as the misted air then, a truck came its lights making you disappear and waking me from this cold perfect dream
0
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 11:42 PM UTC
the fog, the fox--not a poem
tonight--my walk there was fog, a rare vapor on these prairies perhaps there   because I had just read of London, and German bombs falling through its mythic miasma, though the only sound that disturbed this nocturnal glaucomic vision was a lone siren, a fire truck, vanished into the ether, to save a life I suppose, since there was no fire there was, on the next block in halogen haze a fox; I know you you ate the fat black pet hare the neighbors mourned   tonight, you, and I were on a stroll--I tracked you just to see your fine tail, hear your soundless pads on the pavement, knowing the sight and silence of you were as rare as the misted air then, a truck came its lights making you disappear and waking me from this cold perfect dream
spysgrandson
Written by
spysgrandson
American
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 11:42 PM UTC
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