fog is but the breath of ghosts

fog is but the breath of ghosts
can we not feel the moist heat
can we not smell the sweet deathness that hangs
just above the ground and just below the sky
is it not the sighs of the lost
the hot, muted screams of the angered
does it not have the uncomfortable stickiness of the underworld
and the serene chill of the heavens
in the same still breeze?

fog is but the breath of ghosts
hot and heavy as they clamber together
very near us yet in another world where
none of the trees have leaves
the fog is thick as it wafts from
huddled masses of bodies slowly scratching at the sky with
broken fingernails like a
swarming sea of incorporeality
reality?
perhaps dreams, too
waft from the same stomping ground
and are filled with the same
rich, heady stuff