Wednesday, August 15, 2012

haibun || Sheila E. Murphy

Warmth softens the divide between skin and atmosphere. Clay breathes
what we have in common: mix of sigh and threads. Threading the
spools that wind / unwind. One does not ask after a piece of music. One
subsides in interest, joining a melodic peace. What does not move
is the will to find. The homestead act pales next to home. So many
squares of footrest. Many observations. Accretion as the foray into
stasis. Song remains unfettered, so the fireside notions of a task 
revive a tempo. This fraternal quest complete at the beginning. In the night
the planeload fuse with thunder, then yield rain. One nevertheless
makes off with goals as though material were immature. One gathers
as though mere basketry proved the solution to a constant nakedness.
How many pastures does it take to leave the rug unbeaten? More than
any lean-to that we might have claimed, affection fills the distance
with more distance. One module at a time, one speck, one sheepish grin.
The texture of a feather fallen on these times. Lining the cage. Living
the rage.
Semaphore gone pink, the decibels as rich as summer fronds, alight
Sheila E. Murphy

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