My connectivity distorts your intact rain until I tell you breath depletes engagement
with informal death. Perception of per capita remunerates that sinking flock
of breadlines. An interruption glyphs the wall instead of sky paint. Lonely
loss of wine bar, winter, walleye, seed. These drying things remind how many
curiosities have been remanded to a folder between fingers of the sherpas
and the deans. A clock strikes eyesight with a tone too bright to read.
I'm thinking you bemoan rejoinders of all kinds. I hear loneliness in your
protectorate. The species you adorn by way of fatherhood, a fine line between
faith and cloistering one's prayer, redacted by the mother who refuses to arrange
a screening. Voice implies restraint distinctly different from a discipline attributed
to selves. I winter in the north, to know these trees beyond the trees. Whose
latitude amasses guilt portending reciprocity again.
Mind attributed to motion, pulse of the beloved, safety deprecating, and the lion's
share of something gone
Sheila E. Murphy
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