Thursday, July 12, 2012

haibun || Sheila E. Murphy

Which of these embroiders the indigenous? A carving, pale to touch,
a violet, or a quail? The mind scrolls down to patch a wave with
an invented wave, inverted to the smooth pragmatic pinch of sleet gone
threaded. Each window has been dressed to keep the eye affixed to
possible delivery. Owls and preaching, silver blades of olive leaves,
the line of red rock here where we sit a distance from each adverb
left along the floor. A desert reeled in from our table seems a quick
assembly of some words for heat. We talk about unfathomable
temperatures that know us back. A sturdy pair of shoes, recording
capture, safety left to recollection. When we grow we will have saved
ourselves from who we thought we'd earned the destiny to be.

Sore thumb luring rides to unknown places, branches dusting off
the pavement

Sheila E. Murphy

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