was clear and cold. It has nothing to do
with runaway virus, the swollen white
matter of my brain, or another new
year of illness—my fourth—leading nowhere
I wish to go. Walking the riverbank,
passing an old man who is always there
at dawn with his German shepherd and blank
stare, I know where I am. I also know
fog is water vapor spewed when moist air
cools to its dew point. I know the limbo
viruses populate is based somewhere
between the living and dead. A billion
billion viruses would fill one Ping-Pong
ball. I know. And also the vermilion
hull of a sailboat named Wayfarer’s Song is invisible now though I can hear
wind through its mast harmonize with a gull’s
cry. It is not the paved walkway that veers
left but my body swayed by the brain’s pull.
But still, I have never felt so strongly
before that the world has become nothing
but an image of what is inside me.
I’ll walk until the fog lifts or something.