The fog creeps
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
Carl Sandburg
The Fog Creeps
---while Loneliness breaks down the door
with bludgeons in both hands
powers a two-fisted punch to the gut
Loneliness locks himself inside
leaves his junkyard dog
to man the door
no fog of love here
only an empty rage
at those who would enter quietly
slinking about with a soft touch.
Sandberg waits at the docks
embracing the wet gray
weeping as she dissipates
creeping silent and away
---on little cat feet.
(Photo: Stranger in Fog, Daniel Seguin, 2005)
