The ninth installment of National Poetry Month’s TO KILL A POET series lovingly loses another poor poet in the name of balancing the scales. No actual poets suffered. Much.
THE POET BECOMES AN IMMEASURABLE FOG
Piss-dense & grey-spit, a specter wound its way through the tree line holes, swallowing rows of bone-tired houses gone scattered, expressionless with age. It steadied its way along the snaked ruins of an old & nameless highway in the sticks, enveloping hawks & skunks & squirrels as it lurched & unfurled—the bread crumb trails too. It wetted its lips in the thick-stricken air. It kissed out over the highway & into the paths of headlights, in which the poet spied there a lone raven keeping vigilant watch. The poet, not in the least bit surprised, could not speak the same of the elbow that broke in the road up ahead. He observed the former as a compliment, the latter with a dash of romance. His only regret in the slowest moment as it passed was the missed opportunity of not having had the time to write the whole damn thing down.