by Emily Teitsworth

Fog chokes the streets
of London. It rolls in pints across
taxi windshields and street signs.
It is dense: clings to the countryside
and to the clouds when it rains.

Watch closely.

It seeps through stone walls
and cobblestones and thousand-year-old cathedral stairs.
It aches of the great fire, of the plague.
It settles on store windows, trying to erase
their modernism. It longs to bring back writers
like Dickens and Conan Doyle, huddled over parchment
in pubs lit by candlelight. Longs to know carriage wheels
and horse hooves instead of tires, lanterns instead of lightbulbs.

It is a jealous fog.
Wants the city to progress backwards.
Wants people back from the dead, places back from the dead.
Wants the London it fell in love with: the city who kissed
the fog when it come out in the morning, who lusted
for every moment they spent mingling together.


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