He believes in age-proof profs who speak soft,
fashionable modes. Draw to selves unhitched
minds keen to be a part of something fixed. He
treasons what might have been treasured. And the
fall tones take on seasonal distaste. Thin branch
leaves cold light elsewhere. What would you have
named two children, he inquires as if to locate
quick hosannas, lasting beyond speech. One flits
back to land, and claims to have enjoyed informal
winter on the sea, among life forms, forming
lasting bonds. Transcending listless daylight. Sun
bathing as the neighbors used to say.
One breath to another, thistles on smooth beach
Sheila E. Murphy
pretty boring from sheila e,
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