Coming out of the fog after Cesena it's like coming to see again, the sun a white white disc behind the haze. Now I see everything, every little detail. The items attached to the tarpaulin of the trucks, the tricolored rectangular reflectors and the bands of flat rope waving in the air pushed forward. I see the exit signs and the farms near the freeway, the dark gray of the renewed concrete below the white stripes and the quarters of driver's faces squinting in the new light, and it's all here, Italy on the wheels. I relax my back leaning on the seat. There's nothing else to see. The radio says Berlusconi fainted and I am sorry for him. And it always seems so stupid to drive.

The most beautiful fog enfolds Milan this morning, mixed with the deadly steamy unloads of the chimneys over the roofs.

Thousands of hot showers are running in the apartments, countless coffee machines muttering, piles of computers booting, of pigeons cooing, of dogs crapping in the barren isles, the grassed one in the middle of the tram's tracks, aside of walkers and runners complaining for something, or the shop tenants who scrupulously are sweeping their own few meters of sidewalk, the municipal policemen giving tickets around, the bus drivers lazily muttering their answers to the ladies clinging to the driver's booth, and in the houses again, smeared cups are left in the sinks, eyeglasses are wiped and worn, teeth brushed, children commanded, unsatisfied glances are given outside the window, Shit look at the fog now, you can see nothing, But isn't it nice, It will last until noon maybe, No it won't, too bad.

This morning I have a feeling towards this city, but I am not able to tell you how the city herself this morning is restive to be told.

I am surprised to see the fog,
how it muffles the Milano window pane
where amidst the powdered lime fuel packed
failing marsbodies of cement sandwiches are,
antennas drawn dissolving in noplace up in haze
sleepnighting before Halloween,
        sunk, smaller, silenced
quite like any silenced stage when the world
    younger was.

I intro you walking along
the silent viale whereupon the trees askew flake off.
We missed you in this gray bearded city,
o fog, wherein I can't see,
thus I see we all exist
in your wrapped cloaky cloud.

O fog is that a garage entrance or a curtain of dark,
    is that my house door, or a human body,
fog are you a place?

    o fog is it true you are going to
snatch our city from underneath us?

        and disperse it on the land of your own,
            the praires, like one and hundred villages, eccetera?