june was tender
you can still see her
swinging in the moon-scythe
like spirits or ghosts
that nobody sees
that
nobody believes in
june was tender
you can still see her
if the red-skin had been of flesh
he wouldn't have spent so many
years
listening to june in the waves
if the red-skin had been of flesh
he wouldn't have spent so many years
listening to the
voice that there wasn't
june would like to be
under the earth
like a beautiful stone-hand
white open
with the streched
palm
on wich falling asleep
or at least
intimately thinking