Friday, September 27, 2013


Mist into which the river squints.
Into which the bridge reaches, clambers unknowingly,
Hoping there’ll still be another shore.
These clouds have come down to feed.
Their proximity puts the river in a trance and
The bridge arches its back in ecstasy.
Chaste city, in your white veil of puff, drowse on.

Lost in a vast sea, time seems to slip:
It could be millenia from now,
in either direction.
The obscurity denies the present
And makes a stupor of the seeing
And the unseeing alike.
Movement and sound are denounced
And cower accordingly,
Their wrongs softened,
Jellied, and bent into exile.

But bustle persists in some quarters,
Offending the smudged edges of vision
In perfunctory parade, the ordained traipse.
What heavy fog could halt, mist
Can only slacken and subdue.

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