Sunday, November 28, 2010

haibun || Sheila E. Murphy


When it rains onscreen on field, it is our rain. Cold within the home, I wish a fireplace for the players. Warm food, fellowship, as if my own. We read new research showing where psychopathy and business risk are joined. Outside of here, the weather constantly perfects itself. Lures players from a wide range of locations. Spectators, as well. I watch the wet ball cross the wet field, teams earn a host of quite unlikely scores. What registers is our success, claimed over decades of participation by association. From my childhood home, the short path to the field earned resilience over time. Tonight, darkness anoints the home with comfortable legroom. One sews; one draws. The heat pours wall to wall, despite the lingering feeling of cold. I read by heart. I watch action figures preen along appointed places on the field. In the space beyond the boundaries of the game, orchestral rests leave measures of thought open to the instruments guarded on the field by plastic sheets.

Distance traveled by the mind, a body gradually imagined, place-based levity after intensity

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