as much myself these fourteen days of June
sun-dial and moth in a bucket full of worms
we kissed as insects dragging tails to the polished room.
old ornaments of velvet bees with bullets in their guts
stampeding left through the marrow of a heart
king and cockroach wrapped in Sexton\'s skin.
one flower each for the birds who cannot sing.
each day you feed the world I cannot breathe
through buttons of my scalp from a kittens womb
as bored as love as I on a pheasants wing.
our early days of Dickens when chivalry passed away
in debt of tunes from marching bands of hearsays\' told you so
where blows a wind the ragged people go.
\'til death we part as strangers in our dust-bowl of delight
no less myself these fourteen days of June
sleeping with the dead in my polished room
too soon it came and went; too soon;