Fog

All day the air was fog;

couldn’t see

the barbed wire, rusting

scraps, stacks

and stacks of pallets,

the tar paper roof

of Dreamer’s shack,

the underground

caverns of salt hardening

around bones.





                      The fog says,

Who will save

Detroit now?

A toothless face

in a window shakes No,

sore fingers

that want to be still

say, Not me.

Not far away from where

Youmna lies

freezing in bed,

rolling her eyes, declaring,

This is a place!

the remains of mountains

wait to be moved

through smokestacks

into air.