Tuesday, March 19, 2013



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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