To be alone with him is to be alone with myself
He floats like a wisp of fog in the corners of my eyes
Asking where to go next
An impenetrable fog that manifests and multiples
I'm slightly unnerved when I see what else he veils
The dock past the brook
The edges of the corn field
The ends of my fingers
And all that I know
His season of fog after springtime
Breathes still
As I stare, transfixed
He trickles from the places he has possessed
Slithers up my spine, over my shoulder blade
And I inhale