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Sheila Murphy |
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An Occupation How about inventing Shards to mend the lift- Off center after central Salve shared Trickle flute The color clean insisted Upon slowly then Dramatically tooling its way Out of the hearsay often Panting to be seen and found Real as shoots of growing things As water and the leitmotif The shield the safe The say-so in a crafted Or an accidental mood [untitled] If he chants, I'm halfway game To try his version of salvation, If he silences himself, I'm only steps away From forming my divinity, And if he sojourns into trinity, I'll weigh whatever I have weighed Before, I'll traipse out of my comfort bed And seam the foibles left to me, I'll roil gridiron back to habitat, I'll salt the wheels and vest My said indulgence in Long-range entry into Spatial heaven, trial seeds, Resplendent cornucopia Of truce weeds over sheaths Lake steaming any given morning Satis-face It wasn't shield. It wasn't quite the shadow Equally it wasn't any offhand Accent left in speech It was the inference that nearly Woke the chafed dead Lumber in the yard, Car parts, withheld Evidence, the eminence It was the cleats the shards The sediment it was commingled Debt it was having in common So little severance from evidence It was the past in particles Abandoned though still Hovering |