Wednesday, January 19, 2011

haibun || Sheila E. Murphy


A mere figure [of speech I sing] while you reverse the snow. You take up shovels full and place plump moisture elsewhere. I look upon the Fahrenheit, bestowing naming in a sentence. When blue bright softens into dusk, each energy becomes a glow. Now premises seem white stones. Tone-matching turns to function. There are seams we relegate to whim lines. Pathways have been brushed as if to clear a space for the unknown. Crispness once positioned the dividing lines, and now a blur appears more accurate. I take arithmetic practices to heart and listen to a string of subsequent occasions become drawn to my experience. Whatever we embrace may not be counted. Stories have a yet to them until. More mercy than a simple shadow, pressed into the telling.

Angle of light, sound thinking, a compass or a map

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