Friday, August 17, 2012

haibun || Sheila E. Murphy

Tremolo intact, replenishing the stilted speech. To feign is to unadvertise unless. And still, remainders glom on to presumptive priors. Now what, then when? In a miniature glass case, violet hues invigorate the broth. Or breath, or signal phrase. Intuitive with white wrap to the head. Aggressive syndrome, stalwart mail chain. A cappella slumber, party-free, incipient rumblings. A protectorate of grasp. Sun queases in to shoulder depth, a point of conversation. Informal masculinity repairs the duct work openly. Discussible intentions leave the room before they enter. Her people, your people, sure people. Poplar trees out back, the broad expanse of shell space. Walking across surfaces until the motor beats its life back into what it crosses. The low cost of a pen in times like these. The figurative pining. The caress. Most syllabic openings relieve pain. Medicine consistently misses its cause. Mechanical injunctions frost the lawn of covering.
Veto weakness, soft cloth, the part of sterling we intend to show, that partly shows
Sheila E. Murphy

No comments:

Post a Comment