Tuesday, April 24, 2012

haibun || Sheila E. Murphy

Omens washed the spit side of an omnibus without our incandescent knowing.
Parchment notwithstanding straight talk nimbles its way forth. Indentured servitude on a taut leash chalked with gray sequins. Rashes of ice lose figure- ground relationship as if any noble carnival were missed. Into the divinity we grow shoulders. Taffeta, remunerative sliced teak, and a voice coach  recuse themselves from honest feed. A realistic painting made of nesting caulks the corner edge, a kind of skin feel to the library. At this point, skipped beats leave the metro(nome) cold wheat. Curated by the seat of panting and retreat. She says she likes a-lonely naptime. Shores are swindled edge about to dis-. Strokes gone staccato vary in intensity called magna carte blanche. Norms repudiate adventure when a middle-aged soprano spoils them back into un-fashion. Remind me to give birth. The satchel full of wilderness sporadically plucks empty space from where no flower ought to grow. Hence becomes the only work worth sifting from a wide expanse of sovereign grass.

Intellectual odd jobs, dignity in pantomime, a resumé resumbling an éclair

Sheila E. Murphy 

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