The Fog Before Winter

A narrative poem. A story of the dead and departed.

OpenAI-generated via poem submission and discussion.

On the second day
of November: the Fog
unfolded as a well-composed
horror always will describing
its dark will — up and out
from the ground around-cross
the carcasses of weathered fell trees
in the smallest Ohio cow pasture -
(swallowing whole its village as well);
up-round went to the most degenerate
wreck of a overworked Volvo emptied
and forsaken — nothing but trammel
to the tired old fire hydrant
before the Hell’s Kitchen Starbucks -
(thus pall of not-smog did so enshroud);
unfolded it darkly — out and upward
from soil and street
cross-round the sandals up-about
the knees; such hush such haste -
unfolded over face and hovel and sun.

On the second day
of November: we all knew the exact day
we were fated to die.