Thursday, November 25, 2010

haibun || Sheila E. Murphy


Maybe the full faced surface holds sweet wood tones newly lifted from the music in a moon. I would not tell myself a moment of a thing. I would careen from codicil to caravan and dream talk how I seek adventure. To shape my sense of obligation to an accompaniment on piano that sounded like an engine in a minor key. If cadenzas were conditioned to relax against the flannel near the skin, our competition might not traipse across the blended pathways where it feels better just to walk apart from other people's reasons. Fathoms leave no room for fathers, and the trend's unwieldy sacrifice leaves flecks to the magi when they start to rescue people who believe there's no such moment in their lives.

A pensive audience only as relaxed as its least calm member, half imprisoned by the tune, beginning to believe in the idea of invention

Sheila E. Murphy

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