Through the Fog (Written November 22)

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.

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