Friday, January 4, 2013

haibun || Sheila E. Murphy

Trapeze me to the tempo of your scansion. Seek what I have plotted and now found: a roundelay fit for this equation. I subtract the undrawn lines to offer raw inducements of the firmament. You rang? Whose litmus do I call this? Frosted glasses lose their rinse. Prince of a guy left home whole to zilch, while she brought up the young two who lived beyond him. And who praised as he had praised the one who did not raise him or the ante one might think. Caustic reasoning inures us to the lesser handle on a fate made smooth. Present at sentencing to lifelong strength. The mood once free of charge gained respiration as encompassed. A perennial reforestation. Looked upon as freedom of mood and matched facts seasoning each room. To whatchacall one's way through domiciles not thine, nor anyone's known province, if the provenance is right. To splinter from the mainland is a risk no one prefers to take. Hand me a rake, and I'll derail your tidy measured grace. My name is motion, and I own this thought.
Capsicum, if you prefer to tag along, the leit in leitmotif, sans serif and its betters
Sheila E. Murphy

No comments:

Post a Comment