SALT-TINGED BREEZES

I wake to fog
suspended between the cables
of the bridge brushed orange vermilion
foghorns and their sadness
whiffs of salt air
a morning when there is little but fog

In the gentle early light
memory taunts
everything I am afraid to remember
about an attraction like a moth’s fire-dance
how your grin stilled the moment
touch left me breathless 
in that green VW Fastback
as winter rain lashed the coast
and there was hunger
shot through with tenderness.