As I cross this bridge, tuning myself
like the downstairs guitar, she still eludes
me, with her lovely, lovely repetition, ruining
That’s just as well. She has nothing
to recommend to a stranger like me, who steals
badly, and lies worse. Her way of making
the world a little piece of television is to
blow people away, like dandelions on the
23rd of June.
That was her name, as far as I’m concerned.
June, the two-fisted bitch of the southern causeway.