Monday, March 12, 2012

haibun || Sheila E. Murphy

He settles me. The dampness quiets; in a little while
solfeggio remands our early light to an impromptu darkness. Anywhere I look, he has already swept sadness away. I routinely leave the look where I imagined. Whose soft petals of the yellow-orange daisies we will keep, for whose sake? She was birthed to me, her name began with . . . in a dream I could see each of them, alert, alive, and part of me. Weeds occur to target blossoms. I recover what was left to me, and wall off the oncoming vehicles. Whose damage prompts committee work where infancy is thought to hurry to our rescue. Here is who we are among the woodwinds and percussion. Canvas, strokes of wax. The prayer one ought to hold repeals agreement. Now indelible refrains, unmasked, give way to an invented purity. I sort the strands as if inventing how they match their former selves.

In-situ, rumored breathing, stasis as fanatical, regression therapy

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