I’m but a sprout in love,

My knees deep in the realm of personal myths and private misgivings.
A timber sprawled between me and another figure full of someness.
A kitch builds itself and treads to see where I sleep.

In the light-aired night,
The crow smiles me off and cuts me lengthways.
I lay there like the land, my cadence slow,
Full of pain, full of plain.
I’m not strong enough, not at this pace,
Especially not in June.

In the thick-aired night,
The lover and the bay kissing in a withdrawing roar
Shatter me, even when I’m watching from afar.
I feel it so…
Her secrets to me are facts,
Especially in June.