Staring at the coffee until cave light spatters where the emptiness resided. Earned income
means something to the gentleman with hand-carved writing implements. In the visor of a
midnight, he defrosts an obligation until dawn. Now dissection happens to revive what first
thought had bracketed. Known measures of central tendency, as if only . . . water / semiotics /
storm cellar / celtic harp. Whatever maturation features, seasoning caresses most things.
Open books mean nothing until one walks away from having read them. Now the chart
retired from fresh eyes owns cerebral haste. Translated to an inference that used to be
mere integer. That fresh, integral feeling.
Sleeping beneath stars, an episode of unplanned bliss, sequential scope
Sheila E. Murphy
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