Thursday, June 14, 2012

haibun || Sheila E. Murphy

Only a bounty of relating needs repair. The sun elapses just when water has been drunk. How many spare redemptions are expected to appear on the market? Capped chaps tingle when they come in from the sidewalks. Is it any wonder the duration makes it hard to like? My angst endowed with quiet seems to peer over the stone fence. When I think of you, I think of salsa. When I trouble fate, it blesses us in unison. Or if the sumptuous recording of the oboist still hovers at my pate, then how are we to rectify unknown mistakes? Listen to the mood be changed as we refer ourselves to people who aren't looking, never were. Hush marks leave their influence where it started to be drained like plain swampland. Now as if I cared, I will have left the plot within my diary. I will have sacrified the favored ration statehood. Suppose I then turn to your thin record of arrest and challenge you on its significance. You were a young boy in a labcoat who turned ease into a dungeon. People cried for you. People heard you die without a body. People reputed to be cared for by your absence.

Neglect as cardinal sin, the empty air, a parcel at the desk
Sheila E. Murphy

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