Inflationary insolence revokes his muscularity. Her frail eyesight splinters
his speech. His bracketed reversion to a comb line glints what prompts
a little query about methods. That now strays into . . . There are so many
rest stops on the turnpike. Any moment now, the conversation will seem
breathalized into sudden single frames. And wealth will be distributed in future
tense. The mist against will shift the mountain view until the radio beams
calculated quiet into youthful song. One sings legato anymore. The way
through villages becomes androgynous percussion. Quaint small triumphs
make a driver stall. The life blood soon incurs a tiny obvious mistake.
What has been shared will now be split into two mismatched fractions.
The binoculars will be renamed. And hesitation will transcend its definition
as mere ploy.
Formaldehyde, entrapment, view from the perpetual afar
Sheila E. Murphy