The first time in, we passed right through
to end up on the outside of the other side
of town. "The fog's so thick, it's like pea soup,"
was said. All I saw beyond the taillights
of the car before us were the tollgates
then the girders and the bridge that hung
like an island where the horizon belonged,
but now was all washed up and out and away.
For two whole days Saint John did not exist,
and each time in or out of town we missed
an exit: nothing in that place
was seen until you saw it face to face.
But then, a home's not real unless it's half
imagined. We make each move not knowing if
what's coming through the fog is threat or gift.
From Postscript (2004) by Geoffrey Cook.