Three Poems by Sheila E. Murphy |
|
let's have a fight and not let's have a fight and not call it a fight let's call it a discussion let's restrain ourselves so what we say remains unsaid let's exchange what we have said we value and pretend that none of it exists let's also pretend we can survive as each not both let us reframe what we've declared as something other than and offer to recline decline incline lose spine as if were were one thing let's fail once and for all to be one thing let us insist upon our thoughts let's never talk let us think privately of how the world is for the world is this completely non-bombastic place let's say we live here both or each let us continue blocking off the senses from our minds let us invent new minds immune to other minds and think recall refresh resynch resist refine recline rescind recast your your tidiness is extrasensory your image, an amalgam of platonic sketch your heartbeat shatters nine-tenths of my privacy your accomplishments all in color even out the spectrum your indifference amounts to fluid sentiment your parts of speech conform to a specific dwarf peach tree your ubiquity infers the everlastingness of mathematics your columnar appearance speaks to substance your woodwind instruments afford white space your instincts all possess a lifetime of finesse your health wears every shawl still in your home your mantra is a blueblood microphone your nautical accountability allows the pond to remain round your singing voice is sterling in a white row your intellect appears contagious your leaning to monastic shelter braves me your violets tilt in the direction of new prescience your intergalactic downtime thrust into the figurative sea your infinity is my patch of morning glories very plurally endowed a curfew called a cataract it's blue. you do not dream
what angles reify, they ply
from carte blanche an identity,
as one dismembers viaducts
from flow through. art equals
shield. delinquency from
re(s)po(n)se sifts dark from light
touch.
buildings are all numb in brown.
around the grace notes lie
host hills. remember:
dumb resistance mimics stone,
tribunals full of fuss
almost disclose their lack
of inner fire. yet one aspires
to join the ranks of the resemblances
to power.
on someone's shoulders, any joust
is not-for-profit, and below
the quasi-dance is not for
stale observance. many playthings
squeak and bounce. you know the drill:
an ounce is worth caressive blooms of prayer.
I'm on the case. you're on the case. something's
about to blister, and it's not your skin. it's not
my skin. it's the rosacea of
distilled new captains of restraint,
who store their feelings in
quaint glottal stops.
Back
|
|