The Fog is Thick on the Meadow

The fog is thick on the meadow
like an argument souring the turkey, the
pumpkin pie, the tigerlilies over-glazed by swirling
mist. The fog is thick on the meadow,
like smoke pouring from a cigarette and
the harsh bloom of seared flesh, half-remembered, bright-burning
ragwort, a million lifetimes ago. The fog is thick on the meadow,
like fresh scars on a good face, like bad deeds
remembered on a good day, and good deeds unremembered
and unnoticed.
The fog is thick on the meadow,
but the meadow still remains.

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