Beesting

you are   at the bottom of a well in

august

you are   the milk and honey found through exit wounds of

august

you are   splintered through rotten teeth and exit wounds of

august

you are   where the tides come in and bones come to rest in

august

you are   the sun turning over and revealing the more honest

truth   of august

you are   rotten teeth caught in the tides of

august

you are   the sound of heated bones coming to rest in

august

you are   splintering through an exit wound at the end of

august

you are   not the milk and honey that helps you swallow

august

you are   wrong again

you are   a June letter

you are   cracked knuckles that deserve the July air

you are   red milk and honey working on my smudged fingertips

you are   as fleeting as fireflies in

august