Don't ask me now cuz I don't know.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMMCDLXXXI)


Which day would ye have back? What years t'avail,
That ye pine so?  What have ye here fr'intents,
Or whither do ye go that we from hence
Are scrambling all the time? Come, which detail?
I have since lo, my youth, been in this (frail
Though aught 'scuse) race to yonder with a sense
Of where I'm headed and some goal, whilst thence
Bedazzled and deceived til now all fail.
Was I too picky with my men? Why were
There none to take me for his wife or woo
And give me his dear ***** for in tour
Repose? I ne'er could have a child, then. Rue
My folly, yet remain confused? Bestir
Me to redeem the time, but LORD, where to?

12.Sep.23c

Don't ask me.



(sonnet #MMMMMDCCXCIV)


Not mine.  As if a stranger passing thence
From who-knows-where to whither, aught detail
Is like the accents you'll set to avail
Along with artwork for that ***** sense,
Just items in a world that's lost from hence
Its varnish.  His bare room decked on that scale
With table, chairs and knick-knacks, in betrayl
Wood toilet seat's in pieces for pretense.
Tis naked.  Yes, he's glad to see me fer
Old times--"Erm [smiling] what's your name 'gain?  You--
You're so familiar--"  I laugh, to assure
Him's fine, aye tease him.  Yet why does th'ado,
Though fun as ever, strip the dream as twere
Of all its trappings?  Robt, I love you too.

23Jul16c