Morning Fog

Through the upstairs window,

I see the fog spread out like poison,

the low light leaning on the grass and trees,

and the bamboo overtaking the neighbor’s yard;

I’ve been fighting mine for years,

but maybe they don’t know what to do.

I cry for help

but only the shadows come,

and I’m like a ghost wandering these halls in chains

in this crumbling house of death I can’t leave.

I reach out for other ghosts, other shadows,

and our arms just pass through one another.

So I stare out this rain-dripped window

trying to imagine what it might look like

when the sun finally peeks through the clouds.