Through the Fog
No one, among these old people,
Would remember their use. Why
Should they? Even if you wrote
The words on a slip of paper, glued
The paper to the object, and let it float
In their blurred vision like a pin
On the bosom of a dress, what good would it do?
You’d have to give up after a while and begin
To see them, more simply, as human beings,
Some lovable, some not, who have lost
Their way. You’d go traveling with them, leaning
Into the wind, with your sails billowing, through
The fog, all the way to the other shore, caring
Very little if they arrive at a bleaker view
Of what’s to come, because at least you tried.