Refuse to simplify, and I will treasure silence. Take my pulse,
and I will overcome your remedies until the charts bleed
safeguard of the wrestled-down complexity you thought.
I owned a curfew I removed from sheriff's odyssey, and now
your job has croaked. Is there a inference somewhere between
leaves of nepotryst? I sense you shadow all the prophets
you have claimed to see. Remember how we felt a spree of link-fests
come to breathe our dotted swiss, our cable-knit wool viscerals,
our oleander pith helmets, our breezeways grown together, and novels
we claimed to have read? I guess your shapely sightseeing has been
bread. I guess we have to match a stranger's plaid to seem a piston
in a dowry. Or the magi come and overlook what we have spun. Now I
whistle straight-man lineage. I host or I concede. I damage the
invective I can hear, not see. When you are in the mood to reap
rapport, come back to me. Toward this seasonal small shift, this splay,
this kinesthetic fray.
Child chewing on a snake, its mother shrieking for the neighbors
while she warms a jar of milk
Sheila E. Murphy
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