Whiff

You can finger the olfactory visitor--uninvited to the evening

with one whiff nostalgia bent

lending syrup to the memory

Nirvanic she! I'm drifting

if a shroud this cloud could be

I'd Juliet--yet, if I did,

I'd miss the fruit I suck in dreams.

Eyebrow and lip aligned:
they heed my General beak,
right flanks assemble
ascending to smirk
atop high tide on threaded string.

I'm winking, but not hoodwinked.

Briefly, blithely I pretend.