The Fog


drips off his antlers and crowds near his head,
pressing against his half-rotten flesh.
He is preserved in the moment of rotting,
the action of decay stopped like a step
that never reaches the ground.
He smells like death, and the fog
drinks its smell and pulls it close.

The rest of the year, the fog comes
and goes without festivity, a collection
of water and air. But in his shadow, th world
seems wild and full of pressing bodies
in the dark. So it trails desperately
after his steps, and echoes backwards music.

It wants to capture something new in itself, something unknown --
it wraps him, his smell of death, his terror,
his great antlered majesty like splayed wings --
in itself, to taste his life. The fog swarms with glee for this.

And we wrap around him like the fog.