Sunday, June 4, 2017


June is no time to saunter in,
with your unkempt hair and your
glasses titled away from your smile. You've
replaced your rum, your bourbon,
your brooding poesy
smoke, walls and bier.
Your incandescent tongue, which
I've never kissed,
has a foreign lisp. Your gait
speaks of staggering through
an east coast winter. Your written fiction
invisibilized by your equivocation.

June is no time to leave,
when you've come this far -
the mornings are
uninteresting - bereft of dreams;
the afternoons feel unfinished in the
city (of your old lover) of concrete matrices.
The evenings slice through
the ferocity of the mundane, and
at once, three quarters of
an imperfect weekend
have shot past us.

When you descend on me like age, like
time in bookends; when you close the door behind
be sure to remind me that muses don't vanish
into nothingness.
That every June, their godheads are dismantled,
their cities delirious, their demons liberated -
and they walk amongst us like people. 

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