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.