Saturday, April 2, 2011

haibun || Sheila E. Murphy


Delinquency stacks up to be a hope chest. At the behest of lorn grammarians,
who falter in the wind, while venturing to buy blood orange castanets and to talk
balderdash. As if a gentleman caller left to whittle on a porch, reconstituting lineage.
(Please speak three syllables.) If one forgot to be a star, there still would be sufficient
space within (remaining decades). Frost begets a template known to mainline wealth.
Intemperate disagreements catch fire and attract a friar with laudable detente.
Imagine being female. When lockstep frittering becomes remorse, we know our magnitude
is mood-wrung. And the stalks of eminence grow tall as water. What we sell is what we've been.
Our bundles of munificence wash out the druthers and the cheap repairs left in deciduous
windows. Scraped shores show ephemera, as if a storefront had been honed
to cure perfection. Trapped gourd seeds make a hash of woodwind sections,
toppling every quiet with percussive weeds. One thinks of trimming, and one thinks
of streams. One thinks of natural resources quite apart from a department.

Creche, advancing age, Demosthenes when needed at a time turned verbiage

Sheila E. Murphy

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