Thursday, February 16, 2012

haibun || Sheila E. Murphy

I like boring [where the art begins] you
cope. I cope when in the mood [I'm in the mood]
watch out [something about] to be discovered
will be drained [the discoteque] the ample
strings [the wood the plate glass proxy plum]
in northern ways [I take my drama to the bake off]
I size up gem stone tones [in traction toward]
arpeggios released. The more I pickle phrases
the more promptly they come home as language lab
drops curls where dry lines cross the place where
rivers were. I gently touch the top of every trail
until my shoulders glide into the seat where
I have settled like a pioneer who dreams no boundary.
I think a weightless clump of grass will grow if given
time if offered space if left alone, just as
we each take time and traipse across a lifeline
until gravity makes haste and we know things we
should have learned at least once more.

Field greens, pronouncing "no" the first time, life
perceived, unless, apart from, as without a seed

Sheila E. Murphy

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