They say you stink. I would never.
That antediluvian odor, reminiscent of us
before the flood. And I rove the woods  

of the world (those left), scaling cliffscapes,
spelunking caves, in search of our lost love.
Just a sign of something. Proof I need

of our tender attachment. Detachment
of orphic misunderstanding drives my pursuit,
as sleeper wakens to piercing glare.

How to get you back? Yowling, beating  
trees with thumps percussing a want
of ancient ******* still stuck inside me.

I want you back my beloved Bigfoot.
Hunt I will, till I find, anything related  
to this kind, of primitive feeling.