Fog v2Fog </b>The fine print on the beach,its lines once crisp and glossy,now is faded and ghostly,and tattered on the breeze. The breeze sweeps the fog in,it drops my head and lifts my hair,and I feel my feet grow colder, but can't see the coming tide. The fog is my own breath. Held in the cold air,its coming makes my eyes water,and gone,my lips bend upwards to a winter sky.
Ocean FogThe Fog in My Chest</i>I search for shapes in the fog,as it pulls the ocean tides like a drawstring,white and unraveled. Sometimes it is threadbare,showing me fine-print grains of sand,and often it hides my feet. The fog is my own breath.Held in the cold air,it makes my eyes water,and draws the corners of my lips –upwards to a winter sky.