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.



/rosevoc on iwrotefiction.jan 20.2013



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