For years, literally decades, the fog remained
on the coast, in our little town, a beach city,
relatively stable, without ever fading away.
Whispers under their breath at microphones
hold politicians accountable for their words
as well as deeds in their personal affairs, but
the loophole being they didn't know it was on.
Dancers express fluidity, motion, design, as if
ordinary experience needed an interpretation.
Young upstarts at the gate, whinny and buck
on adrenaline, chomping at the bit to start,
under no obligation to stay calm, passive.
Yesterday, Mr. Gabidar woke up from dreams,
everyday, he wrote about his childhood, as if
a fog lifted, his awareness of magical realism
restoring imagination to quotidian rhythms,
nothing pleased him more than l'élan vital.
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