Sheila E. Murphy

redondo

more of you want

less geometry than

midnight, when

I rinse your lawn,

fix things what will not

sing. change what resists

change, being as I am

wired to earn

my keep, your keep.

for our own sake,

the bake of sleep.

 

 

Tock

I walk without a metronome.

The cigarette in someone’s hand threads close to a safe inner darkness

Something that occurs to me is just a self along the path.

While hearing pressures non-conformance

to obliterate the lack of context in a sugar white.

She had a child, he held a child.

I welcome them to confines of a home,

within which each loses all sense (of direction).

In the ballooning of restraint, the adage goes unquoted.

In a moment we will seem another word for new.

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