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.