by Mary E. Lowd
Half-formed she stalks the night
Obscuring light from lanterns
In the alley way
Thicker than air
Thinner than can be touched
She is too much, yet not enough
Admired from afar
Desired and sought
But as you approach
She melts to nothing
—so disappointing—
Only a cold mist
Hard on lungs
Ephemeral to fingertips
But lovely to see
If you can see her
If she isn’t only
A trick of the light
This cat of smoke
Stalking the night