"Fog"
by Carl Sandberg
has long been one of my favorite images.
But tonight, this fog does not move
on little cat feet.
This fog has fingers,
and it wraps around me as I follow the highway home,
and sometimes
the fingers lace together into a wall
blocking out any sense of horizon or distance,
hiding overpasses and signs until they loom up on top of you
like the Argonath statues of old.
Driving through this fog is
a sisyphean journey,
my only aim to keep the car between the lines --
the car is my burden, the lane is my mountain --
but I have no release, no relief, from the top of the mountain
I must just drive into nothing
and hope the world is still there
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