Berth Fog Tangle

Spring fog occludes the channels; I watch salt creep, green unspooling from pavement fissures. In the smallness of this tangle, there is a harbor’s pressure. Every fragment is a verdict: no substitutions, no revision. The grid becomes a sieve—salt, light, and fracture flowing through engineered bones. The glass remembers everything: yesterday’s pigment stains, the slip of a wrist, the dust on my sleeve. I let the fragments decide if they belong; the grid yields or repels, silent as a flooded dock. Under my thumb, the structure is all tension—containment pressed to its most miniature logic. Each breach is intentional, a risk measured against the urge to bolt the seams shut. There are no safe harbors here—just the glint of spring on a wet hull and the slow, mineral memory of tide.