Sagacity aside,
she scarcely suspected that
the strong, stimulating sillage
of her seductive scent
should stay since our sunset send-off,
sweeping me from stormy, sallow stress
into sunny, sanguine somnolence,
suddenly sundering the
strange, subconscious shell
that once surrounded this stray soul,
that once safely shielded it,
severed it.
Succumbing to the
sophisticated sorcery of her
svelte shape in the
sanctuary that is
supreme silence set under a
shimmering star-suffused sky,
I stared up
at the soaring silver sliver,
slowly sailing a serene sea of space,
shining shadows upon this
superbly secluded street scene,
where I
satisfyingly suffered
a symphony of sybaritic splendor:
the saturation of sweetly sung sounds
soldered to my psyche
by that superlative
(surely supernatural)
specimen.

The significance
of such a sensation was surprising:
some several seasons spent,
the setting still sneaks to the surface
of my spirit in settled solitude;
or sprouts spontaneously from the shallows
of stark, sensible, serious subjects;
or spills from my system storage
in those special stages
shortly before slipping into slumber.
Similar to a succulent,
sensitive scar whose scratch
shocks the senses
and swiftly steals sedulousness,
savoring the stretched span of those
several
spellbinding
seconds
last summer
shoots me into this
secret,
selfish
bliss,

to which I
sincerely
submit.