Fog When evening's breath moves
its
veil
over your figure,
I
cannot figure out
whether you are clothed in flowers or fatigues.
You
stand aloof, a
among naked
shadow
alders.
Something to
come
you plucking
find
me
pulls
lift
the veil,
petals:
"He loves me, he loves
But
I
me
not..."
fear that your flower
could be a blade, waiting to be wetted
with
my heart's
blood.
Milo Hurley
