Since I am missing aviation fog,
I shall have it now on the mirror.
I will blow it in bath water steam

Just to blur myself out for future.
Just to miss air planes in tarmac
And wait for their meal coupons.

Fog in mirror is science and fart,
Dresser mirror holding sparrows
Pecking themselves in deep time.

Fog holds them in serial mirrors
Like mothers who are our blurs,
Who were shadows of our bums.

It is a fog that hides “rear” views
In an ongoing mirror of journey
Blurring bums and old shadows.

That is the very fog in the mirror
We write in, our etherear poems
Of bums and their old shadows.

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