Her Name is June

Beside the raspberry patch
one can see her in the yard
laying on a fold-up lounger,
and lets just leave it at that,
without any disclosing which
no one needs to hear, such as the
mishmash of some heartbreak,

just there, in the sun, summer, with
splint reflections off green plastic.

So now you are placed into the
scene as well. Welcome. But I
won’t tell you where, maybe,
at her feet, or hidden behind
the fence, beside her on
your own chair, in a house,
in a neighbor’s house, from a
waiting car out in the street, or
beneath the porch with rabbits.

Location remains in your perception
and depends upon what you want
to get. Well hopefully not that crude.
If so, you’re on your own. Replace
it with relation and the acquired liberty
of being multiple places at once, myriad

as an eye that is a sun (the most obvious)
but also maple seeds twirling down
into the dried out eaves troughs
and the base leg hairs on the stems
of the weeds that peak up to a sky,

as easy as a cloud’s shadow like two
butterflies, with wings of powder--

a Hackberry Emperor

a Meadow Fritillary

–flying into the spindly entangled
thorns so full of prick sharp briar,
tart smudges of blushed sweetness,

and her with those new red leather sandals
and a full glass of sangria floating your lime.

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