June

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 stretched palm,
On which falling asleep,
Or at least,
Intimately thinking.