Most read ▸
W. H. Davies
I saw the fog grow thick,
Which soon made blind my ken;
It made tall men of boys,
And giants of tall men.
It clutched my throat, I coughed;
Nothing was in my head
Except two heavy eyes
Like balls of burning lead.
And when it grew so black
That I could know no place,
I lost all judgment then,
Of distance and of space.
The street lamps, and the lights
Upon the halted cars,
Could either be on earth
Or be the heavenly stars.
The soup I had for lunch
continues to bubble.
Outside there’s fog & rain,
I’m sitting straight in my chair
reading from a screen
& when I hear a gurgle
I look out at the drainpipe,
unsure for a moment
whether the soup is in me
or I am in the soup.
I would like a recipe
for disorientation,
a map for getting lost.
It might say, Dissolve
each point of reference.
Bring to a boil.
In going from room to room in the dark,
I reached out blindly to save my face,
But neglected, however lightly, to lace
My fingers and close my arms in an arc.
A slim door got in past my guard,
And hit me a blow in the head so hard
I had my native simile jarred.
So people and things don’t pair any more
With what they used to pair with before.
Snow plumed straight down
like river foam.
I knew where
the trees were,
loading themselves
with white —
but could not
find them.