Cartography of Fog

At the harbor, fog folds itself like linen, soft over bollards, over a bicycle chained to dawn. Buoys ring out from nowhere, small brass notes dropped in milk.

A gull crosses the beam of the lighthouse and vanishes as if erased by breath from glass. On the pier, rainwater keeps old maps in trembling mirrors between the boards.

I walk where the sea keeps revising the edge, where footprints fill, then shine, then disappear. Salt climbs the air and settles on my mouth like the name of someone I almost remember.

Behind me, windows bloom with kitchen light, teakettles talking in patient silver tongues. Ahead, the tide lifts every hidden thing an inch, and the dark learns, again, how to sing.