Our Blanket Fog

by John Milbury-Steen

A foggy morning. Still my fingers comb
your long hair while you sleep and my thoughts roam
from grot to ridge, from touching to perfume,
and I may seek your palm as ample room.
The sun is muffled and his seraphim.
They cannot make me board the paradigm --

leave those curves, the loveliest of fates,
and catch the train! Our blanket fog frustrates
the morning sun from shining on these streets.
Rows of buildings sail as blurry fleets
in misty bays in front of Golden Gates.
The sun can't see us lingering deadbeats,

but if he could, he'd fry us with rebuke.
The radiated rays of our banked nuke,
boss and duty, nagging almanac,
are trying to burn our fog. That fierce attack,
is not advancing and is even stuck,
his chariot immobilized amuck.

The fog must be these bedclothes that the sun
has gotten too entangled in to rise.

© 2007 by John Milbury-Steen


About the Author

John Milbury-Steen served in the Peace Corps in Liberia, West Africa, worked as an artificial intelligence programmer in Computer Based Education, and currently teaches English as a Second Language at Temple University. He has published in The Beloit Poetry Journal, Hellas, Blue Unicorn, Kayak, The Listening Eye, The Neovictorian/Cochlea, The Piedmont Literary Review, Scholia Satyrica and Shenandoah. His poetry website is:


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