Thursday, May 17, 2012

haibun || Sheila E. Murphy

Impossibly slow-going effort in redacting via poking into others' feeble hiding
spots. If that's a sentence, I may qualify for broadcast vocal quality. This mensch
of a didact mentors me. Dividing line between us copes. We scope our flowers on
the wall to be thin-layered in our wake. Away with you, barked the officer. I'm twice your
share request. The beeline made, once fathomed, has crippled its play-through
dialect for you, for me, for hearsay. Ivor Winters wintered here. A withering respect for
notebooks, young and bald, goes with us through the grad school grind. A diag
laced with smoke, apart from rings, finesses how we work. We work through this and
that canary when we fortify. Conjugate that wilderness, said popelets in the dark room.
Vote for me, said Mary. Find your way to peat moss toying with the rusted compass. When
new neighbors hatch, remind them of referrals. Then the custom of the costume
of the welding pros begins to mean iambic pent-up grace. One move in my
direction, and I'll fault you to the next authority. I see your name along my left side,
noting I am always on the busy, at the ready, on the house. She sat, meaning she prayed,
or there were babies to be watched. She watched, thereby recorded her young silence,
as if any number of interpreters were there to verify. You like this mind, then put in a
pre-order, and there will be shares and shares alike.
Costume jouissance, a major seventh to your spouse for tapping into violet detente 
Sheila E. Murphy

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