Wednesday, January 5, 2011

2 haibun || Sheila E. Murphy


All right, the dream (so full of you) arrives projected on a rear wall. Everyone appearing to have seen and heard weighs in on a question not quite asked. Recall, revise, recite the script as though you plan to mean it when you next speak in my sleep. As words begin to disappear, rinse, blot, retreat. Connective licensure applies to consenting adults planted in guesswork where guest workers have been placed. I share what I impose on selves I can no longer name. What is the ardor of intentions saying backchannel to those who would repeat me? Frost beneath the glass shifts verbiage. Clarity, as well, removes what it has brought to the equation never meant to have been solved.

Ephemera positioned to seem resolutions, fractions of resolve pieced to other fractions


Unshared diminution is the language of a broken heart. A proxy vote as unresolved as youth is held suspended beneath a bulb of harsh light. Someone somewhere speaks a string of speech inflecting what's behind the coming rage. Incessant quiet primes vocabulary that will go unused. The window frames an accidental scene. In parallel, some likely echoes hamper sightings of the source. A spliced intention prompts a clean pronunciation of one's size in language certain to be understood. What remains may be allowed away. A form of quiet crowds the light and warmth with natural surroundings.

Afterglow, ribbons of cloud, visual learning transposed to senses yet unlabeled


  1. Terrific! Both are spot on! Thanks for writing these.--Raymond

  2. I thank you heartily, Raymond! Happy new year! Sheila