Saturday, December 4, 2010

haibun || Sheila E. Murphy

A Moment About Silence

If you craft the month into your wish list of in-particulars, your heat lake surely will advance. I am warming you and all your decibels. The tree scape and the window and the volatile injunctions patch the wonder of lived fields. The internal clock upon our mantel piece shims forethought. Any old dissension caps off shores. The wash and wave of stacked detritus draws eviction. Only those who capture care will norm their way out of the choral votive flights of dance. I'm warning you, repeats the mind. I'm listening, interjects the slip of stain. Of all the nerve, society releases. Laps and lapse go driving. And until we wait for full performance, there is nothing perfectly untried. The child one never had, one never bathed, one never held. This lift in a lone musical phrase means brass, means wood, means skin. Conductors take our time. We ease away. From north to vault and ceiling-ed poses. Are there situation ethics to be dreamed? If heart were just collapsible, then we would overcome our choice points. If our razor-thin remarks held sway, the venture capstones would dismay. For now, there's only hesitation that competes with blazing lamps along the trail. That we can talk about. As if to preclude hailstones from descending on our drums.

Voice, its capsized absence, how we look into the others' eyes and capture intonation

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