by jason mashak
I get drunk
on fog embracing evergreens,
Each molecule of moisture
an airborn fetus of probability.
It’s like an addendum slipping through
stuck to disclaimers
that can’t wait to be entered and piled
atop a banged up cabinet, maybe
to fall behind, found only
when the lease increase requires a move.
Yeah, it’s like that somehow,
that fog on those evergreens…
Like something I lost
and might still be bitter about.
* * *
But there’s clarity
on a night like this,
When the radio towers on far flung hills
approach like vertical runways.
And the moon is cold and distant
reminding of the prodigious sun
that tries to manipulate
the fog into leaving trees
barren, Father Time
and I both watching, down.
I feel the towers
when they can’t be seen,
Their voltage reckons through
~ Multnomah Village, Oregon
-From the book, Salty As A Lip to be released this month by Haggard and Halloo and Effing Press