What does this mean?

What, readers, does this mean?

‘The nebels burn.’

Fogs are reported.
Work of getting there under way.
The lights are vague.

The other is kissed and cherished.
The bed evokes her softness,
so sleep is loneliness.

The fogs are vague.
Philosophy can take you through,
has many ways to lose.

The other is unnavigable –
as is this weather.
Others are weather!

Poetry thinks we cannot die.
Therefore we can versify
fog to fog a way.

But fog is in our eyes.
My love in fog is safe:
here is her trace.

The work of getting away
was inward work, was talk.
Fog is its report.

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