|
Thunder Sandwich #23 |
|
Sheila Murphy |
|
here is mood I pass along analogy to stretch whatever you and yet the doldrums locked in place give grapes away my only contribution oh, hypertext the fan is on the bloom and water melds into the air that seeps we breathe would you just motor away but this another time contains constrains contiguous blueyellow flow ers as chant wilderness in your spare tithing watch each sequined willow slain to me offer a golden prop from there restore penultimate fandango mayhaps and breeze in sotto voce dims like matrices who vault across a parasitic sea flexibility here's eventually what happened: the altar crew, divisible as grace, gave debit cards to spinners lofted into gaps one thought unheard, to face those vague eyes pressed into flesh with longing it was only Friday of the drizzling kind pretend I am your child divine to me I'm capable of soaking in your imitation of infinity I promise deck chairs are plenty for the likes of us whose poverty replenished by mentation came to be called privilege in the dark amenities that leaked through pores appeared a form of individual undress she softened to my mentioned flight and tempted me beyond transposed narration here I am my heart as many of us drying in the slanted heat the copious renewal theoretically by chance bypassed by drama a whole storm manufactured as recapped and the occasional grace tone mantra-ed in here's how piercing her voice was a sprig of fireworks ladled from known soup and whosoever patronized a wilderness declared by God to have been bold as weeds gave back was the rumor gave back to some hypothesized young world deveined on the veranda of her proffered chastity |