It bewilders me, when

I follow you. Why the savaged

retribution starts for a

separate mouth?

I may become little

demanding, sending you a

death watch for tender memories.

Why did we meet for different truths,

to fork out, not pardoned

by anchorage of our spriritual pursuits?

At early dawn, a sad

cuckoo gives a long, lingering call;

desperately evoking the

soft bleeds of beautiful past.

Your profile was very

sharp, aquiline instinct, to

smell a lover.

October is here. Intuition

develops a sixth sense.

You don't want to leave the nest.