POETRY - Third Place
The Fog
Gary Hanna
I could see clearly
and everything had color
on all sides of the road,
but when I turned the corner
a gray wall lay waiting,
like a curtain, one that
you could see into, but
not through, a membrane
that moves, but keeps
its distance as you come
near. The horizon line
stretches just beyond
the next moment, the trees
in the distance are vertical,
gray-green, like a skyline
of city towers. Their shapes
have their way with line,
create images of their own.
It's all shadow, passing
in and out, like memory.
You can't see the beach
but you know it's there,
forms have no faces,
huddle like wet towels
in clumps of gray. Little
towns of Philly cheesesteaks,
surfboards, and fries pass by.
Nothing is clear, but no one
hides, ghostly walkers and
bicycles, faceless men,
and feminine shapes in skimpy
suits decorate the clouds.
Suddenly, a sign giving direction,
an animal alongside the road,
house after house succumbs
to the silver gray air. Like
inhaling water, moisture drops
permeate the sky and everything
that stands is wet, burns off,
gets wet, burns off, a world
that just doesn't jibe.
Coming home, the fog is still there,
light filtering the woods like
steam on a summer's day,
condensation is everywhere.
Close by, the salt grass stretches,
mallows open wide, gasping
for sun, swallowing the moisture.
The road drops off and cloud
after cloud attacks in wave after
wave, an ocean of air storming
ashore. Intentions change in
the disorientation, some cars
have their lights on, others
disappear darkly into gray matter,
you move on, clear spots appear
and you remember them, keep
them as real. Unexpectedly,
the dunes slope up into nothing.
Telephone poles lose their tops,
diminish in succession to sticks
in the sand, lines vanish, and
the bridge rises up, its towers
simply gone, and no one knows
what's on the other side, but you
plunge ahead, take it on trust.