jeune

when my idol left
to travel alongside June
and the winds of sandstorms -
just for awhile he said -

I wrapped myself up
in plaid thin enough
for gold to sink through
(if enough of it entered my body
would he come back?)
and drank up the scattered
words he left behind.

middle of the month
saw the garden sprout in
curved reminders of him,
crisp shoots of grass
spelling out his name,
our address, horoscopes
that would never come true.

truly, there is nothing
clandestine about the way
my temperature flares
whenever I see him
mentioned on the news,
another kill on his record -
they never report the misses.

and maybe he never
whispered any secrets
under the yew on the hill,
and maybe his fingerprints
never stained my mirrors,
and maybe I am really just
worshipping another

one of those springtime
ghosts, made sanguine with
the prophesies of something
greater, hidden on the
other side of summer.