I lost my skin somewhere in the fog– the mist became my lungs– my veins in the collective crossed arms of grass roots.

February tricked us into chirping like spring robins and walking in soaked canvas shoes– our intestines in our slicks shoe-laces like sloppy worms.

The street lamps shown like lighthouses and the paddle boats of our palms could not pick a shore so we never landed and treed water like wilted tulip petals in our melted snow oceans– thick like black beans soup.

I lost my skin somewhere in the fog– the brief cloud became my organs and the night tasted like cold soup and strawberries.