Tuesday, November 22, 2011

haibun || Sheila E. Murphy

Balsa wood airplanes found in language compete with the pronunciation of
rurality. Now I'm warm; a minute ago, I turned it up. Honk if you think
fear can be relaxed. Dumbwaiters have to do (with freight). One of the things
I've always loved . . . from time to time, a depth in your originality.
Turn on the tap, turn off the clodhops, recognize the referendum torque
its way to iterative blanching. Tree branches list amid our brevity. The
sprawl configured holds its posture where we know to seem asleep.
Which lace would most become my window? Hushed silver taps the
dual-paned glass that looks out over snow. If goalposts house
a penetrable surface, who can claim stray film?

Overdose of undertone, fleece foaming a distraction from immortal recency

Sheila E. Murphy

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