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Jamo Filston

Clouds on the ground.

That is all fog is.

A friend once told me that she didn’t believe that.

Maybe she knew more than I:

All fog is swirling patterns of pale pearl

carefree and light as air

like vaporized mystery,

a plane for games of peek-a-boo

with dark ominous shapes -

hides the world

until you can’t see the steps ahead.

All fog is a dirty curtain

that is as likely to reveal something beautifully unexpected

as hide the tragic path of speeding cars until a muffled crash

makes its way through the bright gloom.

Sometimes fog is a reflection of my thoughts

overflowing, so all I see

are glimpses of ideas and feelings -

 moving too fast -

until it seems that everything is swirling out of control

and will fall to scattered pieces in the darkness

Fall, 2017 Issue

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