Termite Season

June is the sad-faced example, the mundane glimpse of heaven.

Somewhere, there are boys mourning the exile of mangoes 
Under the same tree—(they are) no longer pelting with stones but poems, and

I am wondering at what point I fall into place;
These mornings I wake up with darkness living in my eyes 
Some longing is sprawled six-feet deep in the grave of my hormones 

I am remembering all the people I lost in the name of love
The possibilities are stretched like horizons and I am the boy 
Walking towards the doomed end of the world

At nights, I watch the Termites flutter against the vaults
And the windows and the bulbs and the streetlamps and the glow on walls—
One thing is certain: they are searching for the light 

Searching for the light with the ferocity of animals
Whose lives are like June—never here, never there
Like bats, like squirrels, like owls…like me

I too, am ferociously searching for the light
The electric has many mouths and one of them is you
You who at once is the season and the corn and the god and the boys and the longing and the remembrance 

It is June, happiness is a medieval wound, never here, never there, and 
I am searching for you with the primal ferocity of an animal whose wing is a seasonal thing.