The Fog

My head, as foggy as the night.
The clouds draped a blanket
over the headlights.
No halo cast by the porch light,
where my home is-was.

You spun me around,
‘get the hell outta here!’
I faltered in my haze,
landed on my back,
boots pointed to the sky.
Thin blood, flowed between the river rocks
from a spigot on my head.
You said it didn’t hurt; you were right.
My blood, a bucket of analgesic,
after three bent nights.

My cigarette sighed
a satisfying crackle,
while I cranked the car.
Nowhere to go—but to the light I left,
the way a disoriented moth
flies upside down, before finding its
path back up toward the starlight.