This hermit spoke at last in his closed lips
From a few soft silences crushed under breath.
He is a certain middle path wayfarer catching
A flight making sorties over airport failing
To land for lack of visibility in rain and fog.
He waves fleshy arms about him swathed in ocher
In the hotel restaurant ordering soup and dinner.
He will go up tomorrow morning after the rain
When the confusion of rain and fog is cleared.
Does a hermit who meets you in your eye contact
Wear a day-old trimmed mustache on a white face?
You can see I wear the same butterfly on my face
Thinking through rain and fog, in the general din
Of a hotel restaurant, my eyes failing to stay wet
My tears tucked away in a corner of another city?