Silicone cookies make sad memories of you.  Like human tissue out of color, something loosened

away from real breasts  once you held tightly in love; now a dull object, out of  your breath and tongue.

“Let’s just fake it,” as we are not each other’s anymore, like robot apps that asks, “How are you doing?”

Sorrow grips in the afternoons, like suns fading away and hiding…  And I, still, would ask you, “When will you come back?” 


rosevoc2. 1.17.2012. on a Thursday                                                                                                         






You called away from home, those serene nights of longing.  You wanted to see me, those dead nights, like Michael Furey’s love.  How we dreamt, how we gripped each other were tastes for our tongues.  My fiction in solitude is when you held every piece of me like hardened throbs.  You were succulent in my heart and in my womb.  My memory can never delete you, because from the dark hole, you saved me.  Your love sufficed. I still love you. 








(Inspired by MacLeish’s  Ars Poetica)


Cold evening of grey snow

You and I like stars hooked on a moon comb

Bliss of hearts innocent as dawn, wise as dusk

When the moon climbs and the sun slides,

–          A  poem be.


Two as one locked together

Espoused in bed in cold December

Not all too soon, but in slow embrace

Immortal and free, one, our hearts

–          A poem be.


/rosevoc2. on a thrusday and friday, january 2013


all in first drafts –



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