The halo of June’s hair is suffused with amber light 

like primordial resin in the afternoon. I brush out a curious, leafy insect 

that has mistaken her for the earth. Beneath, a volcanic hearth 

 

heats her to such temperatures 

that neither creature nor man could withstand. There is a piety 

demanded of the rainwater that falls on her body, 

 

evaporating in a shroud of ancient steam around her shoulders and face. 

Autumn bears witness to the ritual sublimation of all elements before her, 

and adorns her in a diaphanous, orange light. 

 

I want no greater divinity than the power of the earth 

which resides within her: the seismic trembling 

between her seething, saltwater thighs 

 

that have shipwrecked sailors 

since man first sought to cross her. 

 

To touch June is to accept the cessation of your nerve endings, 

to acclimate fingertips to raw fire. In the evening, I offer mine to the flesh 

of flaming June and suffer her heat – reverently, without fear.