Pathetic Pathetic Fallacy

A ceremony of fog: no rolling, please.

(Swilling preferred.)

(Such baroque volutes.)

Traffic lolls.

The pollution of neon drowns

the nursery in cool blue.

Highbeams breach the haze,

carve the night into angle;

staccato lines maintain

the sanctity of the lane.



Polls confirm the illusion of solitude.

The engine writes a eulogy.

When will the sky quit falling?

(That’s our motto.)

It lands in phrases

while rain embosses the road

and all I think about,

these days, mostly between dusk and dawn

and dusk (though not exclusively)

are conjugations of gone

(going, going) and loss.