love in a fog
The fog covers the town, not like a creature
whose tendrils curl about us, but something passive,
a soggy blanket, holding in not warmth
but last night’s cold and frost.
Above its smothering thickness there’s sun and blue sky
but here its grey bulk smothers us in dripping gloom.
You partition yourself from me with this:
“I’m not going to make love with you!” Now that
is your right and I don’t have to feel you reject me.
But the barrier inside the words leaves me flat
on my back without any good place to go,
and unsatisfied need for your arms and a kiss.
© Malcolm Miller 12.7.2013
