Tad Wojnicki
Fogged Up

I wake up to her flower pots rolling off the redwood deck. She had dragged them over to civilize me. The rumble follows stiff blows to my head from the open ocean. I keep windows ajar, unless she visits. She wouldn't have it. Wouldn't keep windows ajar, ever. Too close to nature. The blows are so blunt that if I had curtains, they would billow wildly, but since I don't, the blows come right in, rifling my scratchbook and knocking me down against the pillow. What's going on? I bolt to my feet, all fogged up.

single plate
fishtail full
Sweets gone

Were I likely to hang curtains, she might have stayed. She despised taking her clothes off "for everybody to see." Welcoming fog? No way. Getting knocked down by the elements? Never. I close the scratchbook, avoiding the table legs and an uncorked jug. While in the neighborhood, I shut down the computer with "Sour Grapes of A Sugar Daddy" undone.

fog foaming
into my bed—
lovers tonight

how long is long?
frozen stiff
to the sheets

seals moan
through the fog
her smell


Graphic: Studio Raven