Cartography of Fog

The city wakes by touch, not sight— streetlamps bruise the mist to amber, bridges unbutton their ribs, and the river learns its name from sound.

I carry a folded map of blankness, its creases remembering my hands. Every corner turns into another corner, a compass needle listens for a heartbeat.

Somewhere, a bell dissolves in vapor, a bicycle streaks like a struck match. In the alley, windows exhale bread, and the day is a slow animal rising.

By noon the fog has migrated into me, soft furniture of the mind. I walk through rooms I haven't lived in, placing blue pins where grief once stood.