Afterwards

Fog creeps into the night
everywhere and nowhere,
an unspoken sadness.

Now the garden has a sinister undercurrent,
the street a cheap film set.

Car headlights try to be as clear
as the slice of neon moon at 6pm
but fail miserably,

the slammed door magnified yet flat
like the pencil that fell onto every level
of the lecture theatre 20 years ago, when
my head hit the desk.

Past clearer than present seen through
misty eyes;
how to make sense of this shapeless space?