Saturday, March 3, 2012

haibun || Sheila E. Murphy

Spoke of hands, she. Touched when quiet, as the loved one. Quieted before
resisting the temptation to be breath again. Again. And as she felt the thin pulse,
everything came home. This room in which. Small moments would be here.
Because enough, the still construction. Walls and siding. As if not spring.
The windows, double-paned. Talk left where it is. The story offered to the ears
of others who are friends. Equals reflection. And the look from elsewhere at
enclosure. To explain where not required. Friends who have been friends always.
Many proofs, in many ways, to show your work. As evidence of having lived.
This name attached. To money situation. The endowment poured down into
a departure. People just continue. Both affected by and not. Again a residue
of what is left when, if. A solo voice. And then another. Then.

Surrender, ad hoc, patterning, a test, nothing at all

Sheila E. Murphy

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