Sunday, January 22, 2012

haibun || Sheila E. Murphy

Unceasing tree light in the mid-range as if story-laden sacrifice were drawn
by hand, and suddenly surprising warmth could stay. I tell my sit-com
anchor that the welding will just wait. When we are ready, branches
can be joined as virtually as eyesight will endure. Is accuracy
famous? The crowd is willing, but the heart still leaks self love. The only
metric on the threshold of a dousing in the iceless river is fluidity.
Who sanctions inner space? If cubic feet were verified, one could depend
upon the depths. If food supply assumed more color than the garden's,
we might last. A dress rehearsal needs no dress, apart from pantomimeo,
regression, and the lurking of a manager. Now and then, it's daytime.
When the supernatural resumes its pleasant temps. Copy that.
Define a little thing like morning when the inclination comes.

Rapport, weeds occupying gardens, no more social playthings, only
faces making or absorbing sotto light

Sheila E. Murphy

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