poetry

July In June
As it appeared in The Initial Journal vol. 1 no.1, August 2020.

Feels like July in June –
The nights quiet and dry,
Crushes blooming at scouts camp,
Engines purring in Alberta,
Street lights coming alive while you sleep.

July in June’s when I forget the sounds of winter
And hear crickets yelling so loud at each other.
A lonesome cabin in the woods
Away from concrete walls of my dorm room.
The smell of steak in the yard, or that of piss
In a resort. The heat is bliss.

It’s unseeing today’s discrepancies
And seeing them on August twelfth.
It’s not Brooklyn if you’re hiking.
Could be Louisville in November. Could be San Fran in rush hour.
This is time, so, slow, folding into the
La La Lands I wish to go.

I’d like someone to be somewhere waiting for me,
Someone with something somewhere to see,
All white flakes dropping so aimlessly,
It’s all for me – it’s all for me.

Someone somewhere someday to be,
A laughing-stock, a staking-jock,
A dearly mate in times of loss,
A greater hate for when we cross.

It’s all for me, it’s all to be,
Someone someday somewhere to see
Me being poor and on all four,
It’s all for me – someone lovely.

To Emily Dickinson