Saturday, June 2, 2012

haibun || Sheila E. Murphy

This opiate of weeping that she does inflects. And fairly propped young integers relieve us
of our shift. All ironing notwithstanding, a perk point five is what we pour across
our druthers anymore. My surface takes to one-one-two when sans humidity I walk
you walk she walks we warm to you to them, and constitutionals go free. In the early
moment of this century the weeds grow plentiful, we pluck their strings. Our Leonard
man has gone, she heard him on the first day he stood before symphonic space.
Stiff uppers scoffed. His coffers would be overfilled as our events would be seen
through. No matter how geography plays hay against the moon, we take our
chaperones still riveted by openings. I write to twelve different metronomes.
The droning wheat tones smudged by wind are otherwise drawn things. The
young man who phoned announced that he had lived through what I cannot know.
New engine has been ordered, will be built next week. Our aftercare is poise.
The moment a lament begins, we clear the other noise. My say-so turns your usual
brisk song. I take you at your word. The entr'act repairs to private places, full-term
Mere divinity, the way I ask you to recall scenes to our left
Sheila E. Murphy

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