The ancient fog requires more of us
than we feel equipped to provide.
Underlying every vague philosophical notion
is a bizarre ocean of fumes.
The camera zooms in on the pavement,
focusing on the tiny crack
where the potential flowers into the actual.
This could be you, it could be me,
but it can’t be both. Otherwise,
the shoe would fit. How we flirt
with protracted disaster
isn’t anyone’s business.
Maybe next summer
we can raise the dead letters.
Cast off our fetters.
And make peace with the sun.

-r. miller

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