Mist by Jeff Burt

Today the mist has pockets,

holes in the seams, some

as small as a finger might

fit and wiggle free,

others as if the entire lining

has been ripped from the bottom

and the pocket is soon to wither

thinning to a dazzling white cuff

at the end of a waiter’s white sleeve

and what it serves, it serves.

You are grateful. You take it.


Jeff Burt lives in Santa Cruz County with his wife, and works in mental health. He has contributed previously to Trouvaille Review, Heartwood, Your Daily Poem, Williwaw Journal, and Red Wolf Journal.

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