Friday, July 27, 2012

haibun || Sheila E. Murphy

Porterhouse call sounds toll-free mistakes. The doctor is sin. Remunerate, remand, regenerate, recuse. If I am centimeters from your hallmark, blush. Along the river, people occupy. The footpaths changed by drizzle seep into wrong lanes. Only teardrops let us pray. Let us refine our sweepstakes with a shade of obfuscation. Terra firma obviates a cloud of rust. My only benefaction plunks remade silver upon likes of gold. Whose caritas remains in full view of the ivy. Chimney blanks leave room for birds to enter kingdoms godlessly. A maker's marksmanship shape cauterizes mere indention. Reputed constantly to overdo exactly what it does. The few birds trace a candle of wide blue. Around the bend is sycamore. And gelatin. Astride the harsh mistakes awaiting execution. When it's time to sing, we must be gilded by new morning. Is the city quite awake? I deem you characterful and young. I deem you just my likeness, give or take two decades. Only the minuet deceives our static wilderness. He watches me watch him watch me. As if to stage a comeback that might knit you to the shelter.

Follicles against linoleum, the vantage point of cusps this way and that

Sheila E. Murphy

No comments:

Post a Comment