In a sled
pulled by a
four-wheeler,
chasing the fog as
we’re chased by the fog,
The kids are screaming at
every bump, then laughing.
I’m half frozen, but with what lights
there were fading fast behind,
I’m thinking only of my fear of
my fear of death.
The fog is hungry here, immensely so.
There is a bridge, and
then there is not.
There is the Sea, and then
there is not.
A dog, frozen meat,
dead on the side of the road,
then is gone.
We make our way through town
on the only road out.
The few buildings left offer little comfort,
then are gone.
The fog pushes together into
The crosses of the cemetery.
As we pass them,
wooden and white,
They stand tall for us,
then are gone.
By the time we make it back,
we’re all too cold to move.
Even the kids are sitting silent,
watching their village reappear
with dead eyes.
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