Fog Winter Death
The fog’s
arrived on
cat’s feet,
tiptoeing
over the
Cascades from
the ocean,
harbinger
of winter.
Death’s become
my knitting
needle,
not that
I do
that much
knitting.
Mostly I
poke out
an eye,
puncture
an eardrum.
Fog
winter
death.
Failed attempts
at living,
lined up
like deserters.
Rat-a-
tat &
down they
go like
mowed wheat.
Perseverance,
that’s the
ticket,
fear in
camouflage.
Stand still
at the
Wailing Wall,
let your
secrets sob
into stone.
It’s at
the end
of life
that the
Cheshire
Cat shows
its claws.
