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…
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