She gave away some images until blankness had trespassed.
Her only child reverted to adulthood. Standing where the moon
perspired a nearly spherical mute light. Softness without laminate
seemed imprecise as any pool. A feeling of need failed to replenish
either side. Would imminent resentment translate? She knew only
not to lullaby. The blond white moment shifted darkness. Quiet
song amounting to rest after rest, rectangular pauses offered
attention, measured. She unboxed then boxed those pictures that
the child would touch. Vibrati once absorbed into the paper
held. Indifference became a deity, one answer at a time.
Independence, earnings season, tapestry allowing tiny light
Sheila E. Murphy