Sheila Murphy

p (i) lot

she moved as fast as salt
I think you know what I don't mean
by "pairs of stories
formed a trial balloon"

one reaches for what
one cannot start to
lift (comports
with formal light)

unformed or framed
the way a ribbon
used to do when gifts
seemed sure, extended

as a tended notion ringing
round the patterned flight
emitting undisturbing light
that stains even the trace

my heaven

you perfume the everlasting stars
by quintessential lack of measured
chance that each may sweeten
encore observations leading to selves
familiar before known

space minus
all the troubling integers

the intellect is that intoxicating
slipknot that disgraces
chastity along the lip of pond

safety happens last on our remote list
of distractions many miles from
how we process where we are

attachment will remain a theory
stitched to brevity
mere shoulder strap of winter
hinting at the seasoning
as constant louvered
pathway lorded over morning

vestments tied to their apostrophes
enlarge the faith prior to fact
and witness turning

enforce my timeline of retractions
that I might cement the prior
piece of give enmeshed
in a striated silence

hand over hand indulgence sequences
the live-wire posture seaming
pavement and treebranch

line-level purity reclaims
the servant lead time once
attributed to firmer sparring

tablet by tableaux
return to an original
impasse plump with empathy
calling hope its
quiet witness situated
at the crossing
of mentations

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