University Press of Virginia (Associated Writing
Programs Poetry Series), 1979
I’m cold. I don’t know what word
I can send to you now:
something about bones ablaze
the day the fog came in.
What a thing to waken to! At times,
I’d rather you were huddled here,
our breaths kindling their own fog,
our bones secured and sunk.
I’d rather we were in Tierra del Fuego,
coughing, without any fire.
But my message: the flesh
is a fog that burns.
The fog is fire enough, rising,
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