june, you, monthlong solstice

your 30 days of day

of The Light’s false dominion.

he suggests a good way to estimate
the number of roses on my climbing rose bush
is to count the number of buds and blossoms on one linear foot

so, I do.

there are 60 or more on one stem / i probably missed some

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6,000? more?! on this 8 year old gem;

how many june bouquets, boutonnières and corsages they would a florist supply

instead,
i keep them all for future rose hips,

and refuse to prune
unless a branch cracks under the weight of drenched petals in this year’s wild june rainstorms

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so many vases i have filled this june.

i suggest that i may create a perimeter of this variety,
an impenetrable devastating fortress of thornage, a natural, beautiful “devil’s rope”

a physical warning

i once saw mule deer clear an 8′ fence in colorado — without a running start, could a herd of robot dogs do that?

he sees i have saved all the old nails, screws and Mexican coke and beer bottle caps in an empty 3lb coffee tin

for shrapnel.

he eyes the unrecycled bottles in the barn

i don’t say m*l*t*v but he knows.

i pivot with his nervous laughter,

so that he may understand the dual nature of the Crone /

i point:

i observe these hollyhocks as a reverse summer advent calendar
the last blossom atop the tallest stem blooms
on august 31

the last day of summer, i say

we all know september is not still really
summer.

now,

imagine going all the way to Greece to see the red bougainvillea climbing the walls of the white houses trimmed in the blue

imagine storming the beach in Albania for real estate development, tourism and a suntan

imagine marrying like yankee doodle fools
in Madison Square Garden

this summer.

while Lebanon burns
while Gaza dies
while Cuba starves
while ebola ravages Congo, Uganda
while Venezuela lies in rubble

you ugly, glutton:

you proud, or even unpround American

and your cruel, 250th summer.

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