creeping through a fog

In that room, the fog was so thick I
They got the machine at an Army Surplus store they used to
Use it over fields during air raids

In that room, I choked on
The fog, it was so thick. Blinded by
soft whiteness (the worst way of
Being blind!) I
flailed my arms around for something of substance, my eyes
Squinting, futiley piercing
through the white abyss.

Falling, my knees
My hands
Solid Ground.

Creeping. Crawling. A feeling of
tiny bugs, biting me. Here. Here. And here. But when I lifted a hand to
try to brush them off I nearly

Solid Ground. I clung to it and
Squinting, forced myself to
the stings of their tiny bites, on my in visible skin.

Creeping through a fog, I sought
Your face and the meaning
of the thoughts that roll through your mind and the meaning
of them. Their significance. I sought to understand you.
I swear I did.

Sharply! It hindered me, momentarily, into focus came
Your face: eyes outlined though with charcoal and lips so red
Stark and in front of me and real- I reached
to touch you
and I


Caffeine Arts Collective
West Coast Translation Review
Poetry International