Monday, December 26, 2011

haibun || Sheila E. Murphy

I patched together something that was you again. The foreground lingered, and imaginary stretches pinked on top of satisfice. Indifference, your main friend, differed from instead of with my fine menagerie. It is the sylph of chaperones divides us. And your memory, my overtime, my quest, this yarn. If only sacrifice were buried where we locate strength. Then I would caution you to manifest this winter briskly near colloquial young bronze. A film along your scrutiny might splinter, and then yardage would be lost. Someone tracks progress under the auspices of penury. I child while watching an occlusion dry. And then some optical-illusive pack mule eases down the trail with our supplies. If I should talk to you, would you provide clues as to places I might start? A trail of speech divides the cost of doing rinses. And we linger, we confide, we offset-print respective brides.

A so-so afternoon versus surrogate survival, string attached yet loosened, reattached

Sheila E. Murphy

No comments:

Post a Comment