Saturday, March 30, 2013

poetry || Sheila E. Murphy

Nothing Bad gers Nothing s lows

Cringe fit lissomes soon now,
feathers teethe upon chill
skin field, she was writhing
in near and a round,
No more than weather cut
of coastline crossed out in a few
thin, brotherly aman uen ses
(menses) alle in pain locked
Scapes on a mission,
margin of the neck naped
lure, his garden to forensic
shepherding the vast scape
Of an optic penury, one sweet
new variance a tropic
all-day longhorn cobbled
to a gathered feat of rust.

No comments:

Post a Comment