Fog
We strain ourselves,
staring at the sparsely
lit sky,
its gambogian stars
dimmed against a gauzy,
pre-morning fog—
yet, hope might glimmer
like the annulate
smears
which corona each faded
speckle
in the witching hour's
slowly billowing
fumage.
poem by Tim Stensloff
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
