There was fog
on the walk to work.
I saw to the end
of the block and back
more than mere outlines
seen beyond the block.
Herringboned patterns in brick,
leaves clogging a drain.
Condensation clinging
to branches' tips.
Fog is only fog
when you insist
on seeing through it.
“into a film,” a Rumpus Original Poem by Ryan Eckes
49 minutes ago

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