The streetlights were coming on,
lining the sides of the river.
The offices were going dark.
At the river's edge,
fog encircled the lights;
one could not, after a while, see the lights
but a strange radiance suffused the fog,
its source a mystery.
The night progressed. Fog
swirled over the lit bulbs.
I suppose that is where it was visible;
elsewhere, it was simply the way things were,
blurred where they had been sharp.
I shut my book.
It was all behind me, all in the past.
Ahead, as I have said, was silence.
I spoke to no one.
Sometimes the phone rang.
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