Stilts or minus signs, splintered, though the walk. Shades two
filed motion overneath combed palo verde transom. Lockstep
garden in redactive mesh. This window of a new house I keep
seeing no reflective glass. The sprinkler's somewhere on. I know
what warmth I know. A silver kind of keepsake and a globe
in the garage. Symphonic. Why do what is done yet? Stultifying
overthrow. The crumbs kept for the king and lapsed imagination.
Comatose at once. And stillness for the measured share of this
dumbfoundery. He bought volumes to prepare me for a shallow
brush against implaneture. How warm wool is basted to the
touch. My precious metal premonition.
Portion control, sweetness only at a distance, the breath of one
Sheila E. Murphy
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