haibun || Sheila E. Murphy

Aptitude's convivial spot-check happens in the form of chordal backdrop
to the lively fiddle moving west. I hear her brother has the same kind of
neglectful voice. The curfew we are in the habit of obeying could be
nicknamed winter. The wine we use to baptise young adults remains
a blend of one known with one less so. The reach, the arch, parched
stacking of the deck remain semantic. For days at a time they argue
about nothing. Nothing anyone remembers later on. Thus, they are 
left with a vague sense of dread. Talk opposes sanctuary of
the polished solitude each seeks. One's best behavior forms this stasis.
In the moments between gathering and placing crops within proximity
of preparation. Daylight has been made for making via routine magic.
Tell me something, says the one in charge. Explain to me how principle
can be distinguished from a chore.
 
Norms replenishing a brokenness, habitual as catastrophe, once
you get the hang of it
 
Sheila E. Murphy