Thursday, March 10, 2011

haibun || Sheila E. Murphy

Safety is my prince, immaculate against infusions of the blasphemy. Right margins,
once left to themselves, recuse new selves. The case is well kept, overdone, rescinded
flat. The sore mistake reuptakes inhibition. Yes to touch, and yes apart from something.
When a wilderness betrays its amnesty, the voice imposes syllables. Voice readily imparts a sling of
fuses. By the time you rest in Pacelbel, the hoists will take apartments out of circulation.
And the chimes, a lost boy, the incinerative clinch removed from trace elemental coin.
My avenues are breezing with unlimited renunciation. And the soffits, our very own incessant need.
Whose children offer to infer a stream of contitutional regression? Just when poise takes over poison,
we dry our fingers with fresh serviette and think beyond the act of dining. Weld is how we take back
broken links. Remove unwanted space. Revoke the fence with altitude.

Summative engagement, taste of grape, with vintage after vine

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