Fog many times overwhelms our gods
In the snow hills ,in their red temples
On white flanks , with ghosts of men
Smoking words from steamy mouths.
Other times it comes on silent cat feet
And sits on haunches in early harbors
And with the soldiers in snow deserts
Asking what news is in other side fog.
Fog is spray blinding eyes to thought,
As its mists come floating over sleep,
Between bed and immensity of wall,
On eye-whites opaque as winter sky.