The fog over Mystic is
like honey, sticky gossip
oozing from ear to ear.
the putrid scent of being the butt again,
hanging luminously
o’er the wet and dry land
menacingly holding back
I heard you the first time
soft and painfully true
I chose not to listen
but you hang,
like the fog in Mystic.
an unpredictable breech
I predict you will (eventually)
tell me again.