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I looked out the car window and saw wisps
of fog stretched out everywhere; soft blankets,
loosely woven, covering the nighttime earth.
And in this place of damp transformation,
green lighted fireflies danced, caught in the brief
eloquence of nature, their color mirroring Gatsby’s
light which flickered at the end of his empty dock
both lights mesmerizing in their chaotic dance.
And I could feel the strong pull to renounce
myself, my home, my life—utterly compelled
to invent a history of a life not my own.