Cycling The Bridge

Paint like cracked make-up, the tram drags along its tracks,
lame haunches labouring worn morning bones–
a bell is sounded twice, a warning
to tumble this city from idle slumber.
Feet dangle delicate distance from rambling streets
which tilt and lurch in breakneck degrees.

Blue eyes full and clear in the strange morning light
before everything wakes;
tears born from needle-thin air,
her close freckled face he will begin to explore
when the sea swells to command ears and mind
and her final words grow to a conch shell roar.

Each section of the bridge cycled
instantly erased by fog; his memory must complete
its raw cables and blood-copper street.
No fog is dispersed
by the lighthouse’s cyclopean stare–
a perpetual plea to the past fog-dampened, unheard.