Fog

Fog thick and soft as a newborn’s flannel

wrapped itself around me at an hour 
so early that no flicker of real light hovered
to illuminate my eyes, slits in the cold.
Its intrusive intimacy poked between my
lips, seeking the sacrificial altar of my tongue,
where it laid itself out in supplication.

That soft fog followed me home, where I
hide, carrying agoraphobia around my neck
like a ten-stone weight; misogamist to a
cruel, polluted pathological world.
It hovers now, raking its fingers down the
window glass, smearing my view, reminding
me of my Grandmother’s tale about seeing
a werewolf on The White Chapel Road.

Or is it fog at all,  maybe
brains of some evil, loathsome thing smearing
the glass as it warns me of death coming.
It mutes the world so that there is a feeling
of intimacy in totality.

Huddling over my keyboard, lost in the
pull of muse, I ignore its cloying tendrils.
It waits patiently, sighing, hoping I will 
give it egress to my sanctuary, foolish fog