In June you'll be a year older,
another flight of wisdom and
deciphering. I'll be in my gown,
powder room and all, putting
lilacs into my pores. The fig
tree outside will be in it's
ripest bloom, and the
juice will run down my lip
just how you like
it.
****** bride, the angels
cry, thunderstorms outside
are their tantrums.
Find me in the reading chair
fixated on you, the
sun seeping onto the floor
like spilled honey.
Yes honey, I do,
I do. I am in love, O
cuckoo.
I waded through the cesspool
and found the void,
illumination,
reaping light from this
boy.
My voice is hot and
sweaty, horse race runner,
jockey stride.
Kiss me on that
California beach ---
high tide.