Fog of War

I, but six inches away, cannot feel

the rude
bluster
of this February
afternoon.

But six
inches to my left,
past the edge of my finger,

and I would be
throttled
with the dust of someone’s memories.

Burnt
somewhere
high up
above the gray—

the fog of war.

Is the world not rendered
beyond that tree line?

Are these
green metal fence posts,
rusted,
pushed into
my
breast?

And where am I?

February 18, 2026