Pallor

The arcane fog erases my object

permanence, strands me treading

soup among yew trees and dead

birds and red lights. Powerlines

tic-tac-toe overhead, society’s

exoskeleton, the web pinning

Gulliver to the sulfurous beach.

A flock of semitrucks carting

prefab houses slices the liminality

and is swallowed up like the guards

at Nebuchadnezzar’s furnace. I wish

coyotes would murmur but the fog

leaves a bereft wet muteness while

mildew creeps into every polyester

seam. So I strip like Lear, cradle

my knees in a sad knot atop the

double yellow border. Let us

welcome Lent, renounce our

ontology, share the rusty razor

in my jacket’s heart pocket and

scrape off our stubble. There is a

time to be reborn. I wish I could cry

and be comforted like a lifelike doll,

but I’ll settle for the condensation

nesting in my cavernous teeth.