Foggy Weather

You cannot see the water from the street.
The buildings disappear into the sky
As if their builders left them incomplete
To baffle tourists as they pass them by.
The street itself is clear as day can be,
But everywhere beyond the instant need
Is bathed in greyish unreality
And its existence is a point of creed.
I cannot prove the water is still there,
Or that the buildings rise up to a point,
But if it isn't out there anywhere,
Or they are cut, then something's out of joint.
We take the world's continuance on trust,
Not from conviction, but because we must.