June, you were variegated.
A big fat rat in a New York sewer,
and at the same time
a warm whimsy tropical wholemeal wind in the yellow sun of my Texas heart.
I wish I was her on Mondays.
When the breeze is aligned with the sun
and the harvest is golden-best
and the ducks head south
and the aquamarine reflects a silver light on my sand.
On your sand? : lack of love.
Me being herself can pour torrentials upon it,
The venom is yellow, Lemon.
The venom is green again upon sadness...
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