Fulton

Fog settles between structures in the lowland near this river, filling the yard over the frost. The frost outside on the grass. The dog lopes through it, unseen and tethered yet. To me, to the sound of my voice. Metal door thrown open and iron inside. Put your ear to the cold morning of it, you can hear the river, you can hear the trains. Brick walled all around, with fire in the belly and me. A burning river of iron, waiting to form acanthus leaves, waiting to be quenched. The sun burns off the ragged haze, the dog ambles, streaked brown and black, his pure heart enveloped by malignancy. Locomotives shoulder above us, heaving their freight. I smoke and squelch whatever riots in my own stomach, that which makes us retch. The highway beyond is the smoking river. The columns of smoke now extinguished, fire under iron unreleased. The dog long gone from Fulton.