To the library, I go, station by station. You, peak of my dreams. Those pigeons come to gather around my terrors, and for a time, say hello, daring on my palm, swift, ascending for a next flight.
I sit in the park, waiting for your call. My phone is dead, as your voice far and away.
“I’ve tried to hitch, Baby -” become a flowering shrub like althea – but that isn’t just me; because I rake fire, kneel side by side with the sun or just stay a plain blade of grass.
A monument of mountains, St. Jude in my pouch, that winter, facing all the seasons of the earth, I face empty graves, most beautiful to make love. I mine every corner of katakana and kanji.
“So where are you? ”
Sparkling shops of wedding gowns in front of dull pavements glazed with ice – an elegant silk for a dress razing my guts, a crow burrowing a steeple, posts lighting one by one –
Wither our promise?
“Never stop, ” my footsteps tell me.
“Just don’t stop…”
Shadows start to peep, night burns the afternoon, sinuous wind blowing from the ground,
I run –
My socks seem just so heavy.
I run; I run – for the next ride –
My heart has, yet, to catch on the subway.
Rose Flores Martinez. rosevoc
photo from the internet