Jan/Feb 2003 Poetry

Phase Transition

by Alessio Zanelli

Photo-Art by Kristen Merola


Phase Transition

From October through March homeland borrows
its breath from the river. For days the fog
becomes the sole thing that can be seen. When
it paralyzes the country, streets, trees
and houses vanish, shapes and contours change,
each man's or nature's work doesn't exist. When
it saturates the space, the sky sublimes,
sounds are muffled, the air smells. Everything
undergoes a phase transition, fuses
into the sole thing-the fog. Londoners
and those who mythicize the fumes of the
city would panic at it, if driving
through would stop and leave their cars, go on on
foot off the road. We, residents of the
place, always find our way home; it is our
land. Such fog has bred us up, has filled our
lungs and wet our eyes from birth, and still will
condense to droplets or rime upon our
abodes to come. We know it; we can trace
and put each thing back to its place inside
it just because of our blood and our noses.


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