Sunday, December 12, 2010

haibun || Sheila E. Murphy


I am thankful for how beautiful. Well past midnight, the plump lamp holds still in mind, and any day now warmth will stain the cleansing chill. Sterling mantras ford the rinse elongating a tilled creek. Imagine feather dust, routine, and satin-lined attention. Paper makes familiar sound of friction teaching eyesight showering exactly how we are when here. Approachingpost notes one has tensed away. The feverish new line of code unveils a source material for who meant what when we were sprouts and heard. Clear into night our signals changed to softer ways of mimicking the frost when green became the thinking.

Anymore, and window lace, some spun infraction, proof of outreach

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