Cloud Cover

You are my foggy night,

driving down the old state route toward the middle of town,
the street lamps are weeping their dirty light,
ugly tears falling on the hood of my car.

The fog is gentle enough to drive on through,
dead moths and pollution mimic cloud coverage.

Street lamps bend forward self consciously
with their yolky light, kissing like filth
but whisper, "If I shine like this,
and you float across my light like that--
maybe they'll actually see us this time."

My blindness was healed,
for once I don't want to go home,
I swear the weather feels like your arms around me,
and it feels like foolishness.

Others are calling this environmental degradation...

I'm still blind,
you're still lost,
no miracles have appeared--

the fog is a napalm mist,
I'm traumatized when I breathe your air,
maybe you'll actually see me tonight,
falling filthy for you.

(Compost Heap, 2010. rd)