Night Fog

Alex Pepple

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

His kerosene lamp
swinging, he tramples twigs,
seedpods and bird feathers.

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

then checks what flotsam
remains of when he watched
everything from me float away.

Alex Pepple