Monday, February 20, 2012

Sheila E. Murphy

Weather Is Mere Water

Threads merge, wizened frost
trespasses upon average rainfall
mimicry of tincture
as if treble clef.
Four-four escapades
straitjacket their way
to complete a proof revealing
religion's had its way again.
Tapshoes batched into black plastic
means it's quiet all around
the block we used to
walk, run, click through.
Destination's a conceit,
remember? Arbitrary as
a law sufficient sigs once
gathered to allow through.


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