June Inside You
Oh, how like a clock the lover lost its pale face and colored.
Numbers the longer you looked at it, until each phantom.
Tick of its innermost mechanism heralded possession.
And the mercurial sensation that something was slipping.
Away from you, until what once was your seduction device.
For measuring time had now become your myth: Abandonment.
To lead you, said the clock, said
the lover, we must leave you.
And when there was no hope, when the wild horse watched you.
From the death field, you stood, frozen and alone, the black.
Willows ticking, this is your failure.
Stop. This is your blossoming.
