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