haibun || Sheila E. Murphy

Woven into the embedded sequel to an independence . . . growth, visceral this summer.

Wind in the vernacular . . . puddles someby green and oil-stirred latitude, comeuppance.

Afar becomes from whence . . . endeavor, unexplained, relapses into an intent.

Nobody collides with poems anymore. What is done versus what is wanted. Debonair

retraction of the honest moment limps from view. At present, hollow sounds recall authorities,

prefaced by the, who arrive in tandem to recite a string of questions. To remove a blockage

that prevents procession from one place into another. Always, the elite perform their hatred

of dutiful groupies who obey lightweight batons. A priestless lift suggests a short trip

to the garden with a wheelbarrow of erasers. Getting to work, making change, deciding how

and when to quit. Replacing the imagined angels.

 

Satisphore, revenerate, concealing when the pain begins and stops

 

 

Sheila E. Murphy