Fourteen Days Of June

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;