Saturday, May 26, 2012

Sheila E. Murphy

One Hundred Fifty-Eighth

Bravado chipped from leisurely irregular marble slabs
catches the line from rows of metallic cupboards orderly inside.

At seven-ish ay em the trucks draw helpings of refuse
from households possibly like ours, gray weathered and enlightened.

Repertoire keeps me awake at night: a feverish claim
to have invented everything to have invested in, and lost.

Some of the projection: leadership gone solo on an easy path,
aware of the following along this unpaved roadway almost named.

Pressure defines wildlife as a destination already
a fallacy too easy as a passage to the other side.


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