You science people, is fog a gas? Are you sure? In Tipton, Indiana, you can refill your tank at the Sherrill place, a combination diner and filling station. But in both pit stops and poetry, watch out for double meanings.
In Dean Young's fine and perhaps startling poem about fog, you'll find, among other lines, these winners:
Or this, toward the end:Like dead flies on the sill of an abandonednursery, we too are seeds in the rattleof mortality. A foglike baby godpicks it up, shakes it, laughs insanelythen goes back to playing with her feet.
What a mess. We stand at the edge
of a drop that doesn't answer back,
fog our only friend although it's hell
But don't take my word for it; read it all.
Son of Fog by Dean Young : Poetry Magazine