Monday, January 23, 2012

Sheila E. Murphy

from American Ghazals

One Hundred Thirty-Third
Poise once dispatched, and you have walked into
A garden, the pure and perfect output of young mind.
I look into the angle of a color,
And, behold, an angel soon will procreate.
Energy restrains its status on the cusp
Of softness, winter full of sunlight without warmth.
If I have hesitated to infuse informal magic
On our practice, lore appears impenetrable at once.
Salt and sand upon the driveway preclude falling.
Fugue rescinds an individual alignment.

One Hundred Thirty-Fourth
Opening night, voice warm to impending percussion
To last years beyond delicious present tense.
Mammals, perhaps self-contained, fill space around them.
Look at the hand-drawn outline on the floor of the apartment.
The simple thing: room-temperature water
And a wooden chair, Friday afternoon, en route to peace.
At the lip of some stupendous future, breathless
As a child awaiting the next hour, big percentage of life.
Gretl dropping crumbs, hunger seeking its own level,
Pretty soon the weekend brings on Woodstock encore.


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