Tuesday, October 12, 2010

poem || Sheila E. Murphy


If I tinctured how I feel for you, my mood would shift toward the wheel of soft pin twirl. I would regard a map as leading where I sense the swivel of a feather hue as dark leaves dim against horizon line. Diminishing returns relent as wealth comes on. A will point fires the kindling of inflamed keepsakes nearing winter's pose. Skin tones near the snow allow for now I lay me down, to steep water's undying reel, as float equests its way toward darkness. Every syllable to you speak is sand that falls through pretty middle of the hourglass, with not one speck to waste. We know things, as together we live choices. Fast asleep recurs against the tapshoe impulse meeting hard rubbed floor yielding to textures and the shine. Influence placates when it dries and when we sleep and when the mix of north and swing state turn to fleece as orderly young pings. No matter how obverse the damages, motion imposes pre-ordained direction.The quintessential forecast of a hardy flower. Would thus seem the world. And all of this, through sensing where the roots align with soil, the gesture of assignment in a wilderness cast long against sweet shadows of an afternoon.

Leisurely mistakes as though eternity were springtime, long drawn titian and the vibrant threads

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