Fog rise


Traffic flows like a steel and plastic snake

in and out of the Lincoln Tunnel tubes

Me, sitting on a rock staring down at it all

the spiked horizon with its ever erect Empire State

rising out of the mists of gray

Nothing soft in that place until the fog rolls in

swirling around it and me

rising up to its tip so that it seems to ooze with fog

The soft fabric wrapping around me and the sky line

soothing our edges with tender rhythms

the ins and outs, the heavy sighs,

all born out of an over heated water,

the river lapping at our feet, our breasts, our eyes

drowning us with its lace

until we succumb.



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