The Progress We Sow

7/7/2018
Dense fog descends on this
dismal, dour day, shrouding
all there is in a blanket
of silt and soot.
The gray haze blinds
as I reach for something
— anything —
solid, familiar. Nothing
to find, I fall to my knees,
lungs filled with smoke
so palpable I taste charcoal
with every breath. All strength
is squeezed from my body, lying
defeated, supine, on mounds
of ash and dust, suffocating
in fog from the progress we sow
until all I see is red.