haibun || Sheila E. Murphy

for Peter Ganick

Any morning traffic takes the air into consecutive arrangements, trying treble clef, viola clef, breath drums, quiet in the polished dark. Watch each bottlebrush along the walk. The word for weeds that should be jewelry makes the yard a globe. The place to pay admission is the mind, where rock formations dry after an overdose of winter. Birds call substance, birds call voiced stringed instruments whose residue will linger in our minds. Whatever namesake strives to take apart the leaves written in declarative blue ink will no doubt transmit the sanctity of city streets. That may be watered or relieved as fate turns noticeably weaker than the pale parade of happenstance. Now the flowers we elect to train our eyes to see become a ritual before they go unnoticed in the foreground of some gray divisible. As actuarial tables rise to smooth out expectations bottled as they are before our constant celebration of supposed independence.

Fireworks, foster exploration, cloud cover prior to assignment of a name

Sheila E. Murphy