Wrists bound with satin cords, they wed in June.
Till death or an affair, he said in June.
Moon-fuelled, she keeps each man a month, shows her
faces to Caleb in May, Ted in June.
Sweet as pie in Anita Bryant’s face,
dreams stored inside of poppies, red in June.
When rocket turns to bomb, we find our tribe.
Will there be peace or more bloodshed in June?
Sci Fi and advertising alter time.
The model poses on a sled in June.
She hinted for a baby pygmy goat.
He got her daffodils instead. In June,
rainbows fill store windows. Whatever sells.
Pride parades. Inhibitions shed in June.
Scared of cliché, she cuts spoons and the moon
from odes to ecstasy in bed in June.
Marie Kondo’s for winter. Embrace mess.
Who wants boxes of bills to shred in June?
He cracked Nazi code, was convicted for
sex. Toast to Alan Turing — dead in June.
Flowers’ gaudy colors beckon — Stone, write
about us, not a man who fled in June.