Michelle Greenblatt and Sheila E. Murphy



I will make you a shirt of water; I will build you a sparrow's nest
With sugar and squeamish eyelight to replace the sacrificial tone.

Cross stitch hastens summer, although paradox defies
The moon's dive for hasty trees in the slender ocean.

Never mind a world meshed to the underbelly of the sun
Forensic reflex misses living daisies that face cloudward.

Confetti is the highest form of document
To tell the page with visible change a fable.

Today I leave the dissecting room with star-salt
Latched to trace red from a wide array of sandstone

Promise me that history will still be knelt upon
When the day breaks open with the drizzle of the sun

Branches intertwine trees around their fissures
Latitude invokes retrieval of the soil

Leash white circumstance blends beyond alignment
Ice to split the firmament into bedrock.

Blueprint maps the nerve that wants to forget
Its own recalcitrance like feather dust.

When in voice, one encapsulates thought process
Between the teeth, head and tongue to brain and lips.

Scrim peeled back, what reveals the twenty petals
Glowing as though secretly behind warm frost.

Consecutive breaths (count them) move the conversation
To "take me away from yourself"; again heavy rain

The mass is squealing sunshine on the bluemoon path
All summer of striation tines run smooth to grass.

Severance defeats a factual regression therapy
I soak moon-slowly in a concatenated dream of trees.

Angels play tricks with mirrors, scabrous clouds
Thin shine while making softness clear from scratch.


A minute of the ash stalls in the center of the eyelight;
To stay alive one must learn about the moonslice and rustpeel.

Hold "capture" in your hands, let it slide amorphous
As the impromptu morning that recedes from grasp.

Semitones might hover on the cusp of hearing
While music under cover edges from the scrim.

The color of rain under water, the shells of clouds
Occur free form even in winter mixed with graying.

Toss into this place this shard of language
Where it is shorn by sulphur and decay.

The brighter air-white words caught in fishing nets
Will not fray gently; time revokes elastic.

A vaccine of pulse contains the moment of infection.
The upturned wrist heavy with the bloodbeat, bloodbeat, bloodbeat.

In sacramental clarity, I ran through the streets,
And soon the streets were tiny skies tapped thrice left and right.

Marigolds recover soil from horizontal flaws.
River's current striates on sedimentary laws.

The sound of the underground deracination
Pawns off anchors where their price can be accepted.

Brass or woodwind? Light seems safety, charms in quiescence
Gather in dilation and climb the four Ngong hills.

The mutilated man picks flowers for cold folds of skin
Replenishing informal daylight after hours that pass.

Pioneers invent the thread that will be ratified
What we tried first was to speak of possible silence

Shades of white follow the rubicund clouds; let us bow down
And center what is soft land along our lavish brainlines.

Cursive pages interlace two lives with
Pencil stem and pieces of human voice.


The garden is here; I knew it would be (ash stems, bone butterflies),
Patched silk seeming sketched first person threading treble clef plus ochre.

An arranged marriage made by policy
Out of a red sun into a black one.

Inserted with foreign matter, she thinks,
Chemistry distracts from yondering bones.

Rutabaga sleeves its way through soil
Light worms a path through tilted, drying clouds.

The water beneath me regurgitates musky consciousness
Where I am I hope to be; I tell you this in confidence.

White Shoulders equals a perfume that many people stand upon;
Skin grinds frozen syllables of speech down to disintegration.

Fathomless eyes peer from a black language
Cauterizing otherwise daylit space.

Redundant freshness leans against long windows
Which tower by buildings repeating doorways.

Look at the skeleton children, holding hands
While we are looking back as reciprocal.

Negativity is apt to cross one's mind, light equally
As a hole is apt to cross a crater's protruding darkness

I live in a hollow light, stems from a yellow stone,
Growing from scratch carrying color lilt toward sky.

Part of the symphony downloads a simple branch
Of the mind's dialectical orchestra show.

The streets swarmed with sick around the rabid city
Brim sustenuto on the quarter tones turned whole.

Evergreen intentions mindlessly repeat themselves
As neap tides of moon straddle redundant trees, counting.

She looks through a hole to gaze with innocence.
Equivalent to fabric of a light wind.


Wine leaves spatter out the back of tiny wind rinse
Picking up trails of boxshaped seasalt tear-gas dust

The liquiddark spreads outward from her eyes
Where settled cold rescinds first history.

Crisp stones pierce shoes along a path not improvised
Children spouting shoefuls of blood in the ghost town.

To all my half selves left below the deck
Are mirrors of inadmissible distance

Comprehension fills itself with various hypotheses
People like to be compelled by nothings greater than themselves.

I promise you a poem of rubbed raw strawberries
In keeping with china rimmed with inexperience

Each evidence of skin quivers with precise recollection
As my blood trembles when I wash the earth with my memories

A pulsating mirror reflects sputtered questions to oneself
When rendered in harmonic minor key not quite safe feeling.

Chaperones seem damsels in themselves awaiting
For the tideless stems to wind around your fingers.

The forgetful motion among the leaves
Tangent to perception mildews season.

If I offer silver lace, if one of us crisscrosses distance
Use your voice to perforate the febrile page, ripping at the ink.

Grid jitters at the numbers plowing across their former graph
As if telepathically, despite the ruse of straight lines

"Chambers" was the location cited in a diary, as if
Her skull was dangling there, fission of membrane of memory.

The boric tongue which lashes my face tilts forwardways
Commensurate with inner fire threading shrieking blood

Sought parity coexists with limitless butterflies
It is known a bifurcated home is no place for mo

5/ In the labyrinths of amnesia we edited and fused
Practice near snapdragon and perennial sombreros tipped down.

Voyages are individual and also threefold
My faces peer quietly at you, waiting for your word.

There was somewhere to go; I half-remember
Threaded passages and stippled wholeness

Every northcut fossil appears strangled by the atmosphere
And the end of end finds no comfort in the shape of beginning.

Picking bits of bark off the treeflower in mid-air I
Found chalk powder staining fingers and the act of breathing

Words spoken by a rich voice blister some of the intention
That comes from teeterig on the teeth of some other tell-tale.

The downturned face of the sharded land huddles with
Ginger near the cup and spot checks of the heavens.

If a panacea had propinquity
The bombclouds would fall into obsolescence.

I lay down in the circle I drew that night
Dreamed brass instruments had overtaken strings

Cereus bloomed nocturnal white spears
At the datum burgeoning stars.

Clear as milk and many-voiced come to virtue
Triune, filled with unlabeled capacity.

Sage fragrance makes the desert seem harmonic;
In the afterthought of night, burning spices.

The hole grows perfect as darkness, reappearing
Along brushed silver teetering on shrill light.

Age releases a clean wave of spangles often overlooked;
The dawn drops blue down to differentiate the vertical.

The sunlight proffers the flickering lamps
To a blended darkness; known, risen bread.

e-mail the poet at shemurph@cox.net
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