The Fog

Dead windows to a secret chamber
Hands outstretched, permanent midnight
The fog, will it ever claim her?
Strains of mourners shutting out the light

Pulses of inertial flux dead end at open nerves
A Cambrian regression, a benthic ethnic slur

Wandering explorers in a shapeless grayish blur
Witchy fingers feeling for the code
Forever thralling orders to her slavering black cur
Cast her hands before her for the road

Gyres swollen, cables strain, an egg conceals a lie
Caution: there’s no innocence
Against that speckled sky

And though they’re jelly in her skull
They are a matrix with the power to repulse
She’s hoarding sins inside her book
She sees the world but we couldn’t stand to look

Make her prayer list all-inclusive
Give her the quill, make her sign the line
Keep her from the fallow acres
Keep her from polluting the divine

What’s at stake? What’s at issue?
She could arrive here soon
What’s that noise outside the stables?
Who disregards the moon?
Come listen by the fireside
I’ll tell you something more
I hear whispers in the tavern
It’s different from before