haibun || Sheila E. Murphy

Saffron's kind of else for now. When I repaired to Flagstaff,
sleet in tiny knives pierced dot points on the windshield
faster than the glass replacement salesman at each
car wash could descend upon a hundred drivers who have
no intention of reseaming glass. One slips into gear
and pretty soon people begin to talk. Inference, with sugary
surface, practices itself. As solos break out into northern
ventures up I-17. Avoiding Friday afternoons and other
placekicks in the psyche favoring young Mondays. Primping
along defined roadways as if jaundiced wings had grown
too close to sunlight. Logic entertains in passive fashion,
coming out in question form, unrecognized, undrawn to, and
still spun into a faultline that some citizens agree upon. Those
stalwart gentle creatures who ruminate more than they work.
Some overtones release their fractions into would-be
continuity. The pine trees at this time of year seem congruent
with bassoon tunes on FM radio, factory installed in the vehicle
on which I have a warranty for thirty thousand miles.
 
Remnants of eternity, a splashback, interference someone runs
as if part of the script
 
Sheila E. Murphy