Carl Sandburg Fog Poems

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
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Open the door now.
Go roll up the collar of your coat
To walk in the changing scarf of mist.
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RINGS of iron gray smoke; a woman’s steel face … looking … looking.
Funnels of an ocean liner negotiating a fog night; pouring a
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Seven days all fog, all mist, and the turbines pounding through high seas.
I was a plaything, a rat’s neck in the teeth of a scuffling mastiff.
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