Sheila E. Murphy

Not the Serenity, Just the Lamp

Lampside, one knows sodium to change the room. This room, where one is lifted to the act of an endowed imagination. In which only the sacrifice can disappear into driftlight. independently in conversation. One amasses shy perspective, and the known life rests against an inference. To have happiness has (never) never been a simple thing. Yes, full last night, did you see it? Only clouds, as though clear blue.

He comes youngly to the door seeming to want something. As if to structure (how he may be received). All daylight, one has painted as though concepts live free, are grasped in face of an unlikelihood. Nonetheless, perceived as possible simplicity. If when one closes eyes, new and improved moods alternate with use of mind. The subject of our conversation has been bullied past her life amid assembled academics, critics, many lacking the now pejorative amateur. Prompting to ask: At what point do columns chafe an early beauty past existence?

Warm enough, the sated way experience can limber headlights toward earnest perception

A Quotation

"I do think it helps my arthritic ears to keep them covered at night," said she. A tacit camaraderie posts speech in digest form to be amassed and then endorsed at some unstated date.

What was that doctor thinking, hiring a surly, spit-in-the-eye nurse to turn patients away toward figurative stethoscope of some alternative professional? One decides to keep one's thinking to oneself.

Whatever novels are received aloud will differ from print things filtered by half conscious eyesight versus the committed sense of hearing. Some information lacks a score. But people sing it anyway, as though melody did not require internal consistency. No replies need have been vetted, went the thinking one invested in commencement speech. There had been notes and longhand and divisiveness, followed by hurry lines. And pretty soon those earning stripes and turning tassels simply went away toward applause into the arms of unconditional acceptance. Whatever one had entered knowing one came out convinced one knew.

Lifelike forms, life forms, living forms, all part of a signature, informal thinking

Closed Fist of the Constant Child at Night amid these Usual Surroundings

She has furnished younger dreams with how motion sooths the body's fears. All lightning holds beneath the sluggish thunder after. Cradle is how small the window, also fractionally pale with rests where thinking can be swept. If one thinks just one thing, there can be purity of dream. If one looks at a book where any picture shifts the wording, the sprinkled piano fingerings will go with song. How does anyone claim balance in the presence of so many walls? The sacrament of safety will have passed when breathing is allowed its due forefront, versus the shadows that sell attention. Now the clock face tests injected speech. And silos turn markers for the voyage, shrinking lines between the pairs of place. How many building lights mean someone keeps you safe, regardless of a prior linkage. Even the breathing-in of prayer that underlies experience becomes the way this world is felt by someone young.

As if the farm of butterflies, presumption of migration's being all at once

Love of Wisdom Teeth

Victims many times are graduates of bully school seeking advanced degrees. Despondency of look becomes an art form juxtaposing night terror with buckets of fresh white-out to be self-applied. And only then can Sophia turn her face into the cover story of our aspirations. Many forewarned darlings have preceded her, but none will equal her in grace. The substance of routine emerges cleansed with just the proper dash of sauce, thus making surfaces appear to match.

Highway snobbery, alert new fiends on the threshold of absconding with treble clef injunctions