June rolls around, and I hear them,
Coiling their canisters
In the meadows
And depressions
Left by picnic blankets.
They want to bung me up,
To pepper-spray me until
My eye-water leaves me
Smudged rugged.
They want me to slow choke,
And wake with a stale fur
Like lichen over
Teeth and tongue.
These are your flowers, you poets,
These Husseinist bioarms,
These roses and lilies,
Petunias and daffodils,
Ranked to smear summer
Across the unchallenged face.
Shorter Poems 