Sheila E. MURPHY
rapport
this is not the continent. it is
our breezeway. listen
to the tulips brim then lose each
petal each in turn. listen
to the bride be springtime sequenced
broth. the cellar is a tweed
foundation to secure us. posedly
we north on forward into fate to think
we've caused it. surely
there are rationales that flounce
our separate sheets and wristband
them to purposes avoiding crops
to share. I'm only
one of us. and with you learning
various indulgences included
in the land mass and the transport
and heroic silver tossed as only
value can be off to rupture
rapt indifference. why not
afford what once you offered
to reject. the metronome enforces
intervals between what counts. and this
replaces data entry
where a false sense of well
being sifts the space
and its accompanying sonority. one reaches
for inclusive stars. attains
and leaves the breastbone
barren as a habit system. written of
in diaries as eloquent as
the lonely act of parsing
stitched-together syllables.
capturing
I wrote down everything he said which changed the fragrance. all afternoon the air went soft. I
pressed the page against a desktop a maroon shade, closed the blinds that led me otherwhere.
stop loss returned a measure old space. he spoke in whimsy while I factored aspirations that
meant altitude. I soared apart then tilted one wing and another. It was vast, the knowledge
lodged in treetops. He was never vague. Even the lawnmower noise was staved off by points
made. Stippled as in painterly effects amounting to a single thing. When one looked down, there
were layers crispening. I merged with what I knew against the probability of new opinion. Was
the idea to be risen? I encountered pagination. I enlisted open space. To join in solo singing is to
have erased the other vocal parts by way of a familiar instrument.
Allowing parts to pass into communion, minority opinion at configured distance
Hue Saturation
Each time she was there I felt myself respond to different colors of the lemon moon. Each
inference drew me close. The pale young hominy out there skimmed a faculty of recollection.
Winter was for thinking and not crops. The hand might go across them, grace the field, a
whitening sprawl of space.
And now I think myself a limber adage. My fate seems not what it once manifest. Days tremble
in their seat time. Fins go past. In season not for water, not for paint. Inimitable forays match
the coiling of the street sage finish of the lineation. Save us from impending frost.
Wherever marks were made, continuation rose from scratch
this is simple
if I must speak
to prove I love
it won't be ample
(what I say)
it won't be love
I'd have to show
not say
I'd have to trans late
my experience
which is a concept
into something small
a story
I would have to make up
something in the way
of something plain
persuade this is the way I feel
when I feel only
concepts from my senses
not some plant
that ought to be a tree
not some choice
crystal or some gem
instead I'd rather turn
the faucet on
I'd rather let my mind
fuse with your heart
I'd rather emulate
the feeling and the storehouse
in my way of saying
this is not the kind of thing
that makes a story
this is not a tale
this is an element
yet unspoken