[Alex Pepple]

Night Fog


There is a man in the woods
searching in haze for signs
of me.

His kerosene lamp swinging,
he tramples twigs, seedpods,
remnants of wings.

My name slips his tongue.
He walks to the familiar
river, plunges his hand,
splashes his face,

then peers through mist for what flotsam
survived the night
he watched everything
of me drift away.