June

some days I feel almost content with the open
window through which the June
breeze is a kind of satisfaction, not nearly
as love, or the contact of a body,
both which I imagined I'd die without
but have not, years after the fact
although I often do not
know what to do with myself
even under the breeze and June, kindest
of months. it's as if I had gone to
the store for provisions and kept
driving, run out of gas and daylight
and kept on, then on foot, through
the months, till June came around again
and I was reminded that I'd set out for 
something but could not recall what, 
and shrugged
acknowledging I was still alive
without whatever it was and not starved to death 
not all bone, knowing that June
is still June, the breeze pleasant,
my feet kicked up on the bags
that I never unpacked.
​