I trundle through your briars
and end up in my own mouth,
hanging syllables off my tongue
like laundry,
and making amends
through the drowning noises
in my lungs.

The pearly June sweeps through me
and your eyes fulfill
the parts of me gone feral
as my fur recedes and my human face
disposes of its guise.

What was there to comprehend?
A single inch
of fiery velvet,
a tattoo in red
on your left thigh?

No, my love, your passion
forsakes me,
for I am naught without you,
you make me Shakespeare.

And nothing the stars
cool down upon us
could laugh away that duct tape
and burning plastic smell
now inhibiting my vocal chords.

Baby’s breath took over spring,
heat is on its way,
and today twelve flowers died
for my selfish causes.