Nebel-Sog
for Marie
A centaur drags a cloud of mist
through the wet streets of winter,
climbs our roof with clacking hooves,
all the while you brush your teeth,
crouched in the hot press, the clattering
cold in the house is a breeze
and through the attic seep all sorts
of psychoid matters. Fire is set
to the beams, a flame under the arch
like an angel. The centaur keeps
rooting and fogging. We forget
our mind’s eye in the blink of a flash.
But there, your teeth are white
as you see my grin gleaming
through the gap in the door.
It’s this, this Leben-Sog
that strips the air clear.
Flight of the dragonfly 