Friday, December 17, 2010

haibun || Sheila E. Murphy

A Supple

Would say a supple afternoon, desk smooth across; content, away. And vibratory stories trilling from a phone (yet) disengaged. The moment fractures chaos until warmth pervades, apart from waning shadows. When a child, thought as . . . And now. These creditors abscond with daylight. Still in lines that hinge to points that small their way into the distance from contentment. I am here (and there you). In a cortical amazement, splay this information drawn from scratch. Here is my paper (thin rendition, evidence). Here is nature on the trail proposed by tonsure-labeled gentlemen in harsh cloth. When memory deforms straight line depreciation, what then norms? I hear the male voice on 1190 AM schmooze in a romance language with the callers-in. I'm hearing myself think (in Latin roots). My mother has been gone awhile. She would have lectured in her happy way. I would have teased her in primary sources, our joy still indicative.

Short-story-long, I tell myself in parables, the child, the infrastructive eminence of long-held humor

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