June, fountain of sleep: murmurs in a drowsy tone—

shuffle of leaves, keep the peace

throughout the afternoon, a hushed breathless figure

waits, none to say or stay down.

I wait too, until the curvy ghost fades in the ground.

June, is an intoxicated music hall—

Every tune turns out, rhythmically with deepest runs

surface of darkest stars, I waive my steps with midnights

darkling beetles eat and bites, back where the tips enraged—

impotence of rage flares out, and the music dawdles draught stouts.

June, awake in the rusted parts and the sun perks up

the last link, sings a song of rosemary

and I, quaffed the delight enrage of sunken eyes,

Like all those ship wrecks but shadow of lucid lines

blaze out, a chainsaw in the brutal rugged feet.

June trips and tires with dampen roads,

And I, once a dreamer forgot the lyrics that emerge

two broken parts, seems a complex radiology tech—

Drill, shrill, disoriented voices clamped on!

I, a wanderer forever in the change of madden drown!

June learned, trips with ebbs and tides: I,

followed the mute volumes of surfaces, taught me differently

water bucket is unfilled, nature never revives in hills,

You must look below the dark retrospect, with aspects

of infant years, sing and swing the bells always!

. . .

This is somewhat an ode to my birthday month or for all junies! lol

— 1st June, 2023