Poetry

Mist

I taste it through the follicles of the wool

atop my head I can feel it coalescing

Next it’s coating fallacies over

my neural arteries and suddenly

You feel her and you despise the fact that you do

sense her growing – coming to a head – within
that Saturday in May, you spoke at his wedding

those singular hospice days you refused to take credit

for encapsulating that wilting petal in a glove of ice

Anything tastes better with paprika.

So, he hollows out the bell

peppers the ground with the silly

seeds, hawks up spittle

and makes a circle out of his body

for the ultraviolet rays