sensate

fold it there (my dear,)

a hundredfold

if you may

(for someday we may  be,

the same burly bunyan tree)

 in a certain pot in your memory

 

with me ----- the light

( of day had long been hazy,

misty-- metallically awry)

ne’er did blend with any dove

agile enough to infuse--a love

strange to hate and lethargy.

 

feel me there (my dear

amongst the dropping leaves---

brown and red, with the cascades

of the swirling threads and gales)

just like the days you hear

the voice of my swarthy skin.