Portrait Of The Dark In June.

The fingers called swiftly up
each little character

flecks that stand so at attention
with a train whistle’s
sigh.

Marvel then
an imagined page where
fullish moons once stood over
small bodies of lovers

breaking the embraces
of vowels in their throats,

that newly made riot
for writing letters

and the distinct waft
of violet and sea air
murmured

and crashing
on such skins as these.