Fog

The world is white outside my window, but
I have a feeling that is fiction. Why?
Because of something - I don't quite know what
Which tells me that the same old things are by,
No matter what the color of the sky.
I may not see the buildings over there,
But that which tells me they are gone must lie,
Or else I'd have to think that everywhere
Might vanish like that, and I do not care
To think such things. For she might go as well,
And I'm not brave enough, I think, to dare
To think of that and not think it a hell,
And since I think I am not damned, I know
The white outside's a temporary glow.