Maybe no more lively than the rest. A patch, yes, sequel to the unborn lanyard. What is there, what is presumed to catch the eye of onlooking observists? Chain cleats in a long row, venturing to Canada, to the U.K., to watch otherwise interred. The lanky celebrants conceal their vigor and their storm surplus awareness in favor of an ardent revelation of the armor. Who has been responsible up until now? All voyaging is strained. And conversation. Let him be awhile. The married man has turned to shelter for his pliant twenty-five year old unseated rival. Yes again. A spate of sentimental value looms. What instrument are you reputed to have played, and why? She is so innocent, your choice. She is a brave young vortex who repeats your zeal. If anyone protects her, you will seek his banishment. What century are we still in, and are its sentiments a match for your invigorating held beliefs? One poses questions or just poses. What has been imposed is furtive. And the priests, the priests are jealous of your having no known creed. They season how they are and when they work and why the loyalty has outgrown its attendant quirks.
Sombrero, overtones, a playing field, redress
Sheila E. Murphy
No comments:
Post a Comment