The fog is all-pervasive
From here, it shades every vista

I thought it was was perhaps a smudge on my lenses
Or, considering the betrayal from my other faculties,
the beginning of the dimming that comes with age,

But my glasses were clean, and my eyes, but for the floaters, were clear

The edges fade as the settling fog
             reduces my view to impressionism

The streetlights pass at irregular intervals and I hold to my position at the end of the undulating line of red tail lights

When the flow finally becomes laminar, I am relieved,

Feeling like I'm making the jump to light speed as the beacons fly past,
Finally finding their proper rhythm