Perhaps



   A June Cold                             Perhaps it was my
                     
   chilled my bones that hot               fault, that the birds,
                 
   summer morning.                         the birds sang.
         
                                                         Blameless?
                       When nothing touches you,
                                                         I?  I who tore 
                       it is debateable whether you
                                                         your slip?
                       become more sensitive, or more numb...
                 
                                            Forgiveness?
        Tommorrow, I know not.
                                            I cannot hope for such.
        Perhaps I'll become
                                            yet...
        Disenchanted, like you.
              
                          Today I fly with
               
                          the birds at my
                   
                          side.