Fog by Milo Hurley

Fog

by Milo Hurley

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 shadow

among naked alders.

Something pulls me

to come lift the veil,

find you plucking petals:

"He loves me,

he loves me not..."

But I fear that your flower

could be a blade,

waiting to be wetted

with my heart's blood.