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Upon the nearby water

Letting her poems fall on it: Sheila E. Murphy



Sweet, sweet, sweetly locus placed a Tiffany from roses maxima. To feign is also to elite our way due north afire after a peace is staged in practice. If hegemony’s the same as curried favor, we could waltz apart from any one of us. We could eviscerally stage a place in honors classes mildly and unforcibly conceding piety enough. The moist attire bespeaks warm days. The look from eyes having been steady through the tyranny of outer restlessness emerges soft. In recognition of this office, one accepts at least repose the residue of all that used to work. At least one’s pay scale won’t detach. The signature detention cycles back into a fervent prayer. Is this the backstroke as we know it? Or the ruse played on the magi stowing wit where wattage ought to be? A license to seem suitable depends upon stratified sampling. If a person sings, does this mean anyone is in possession of the gift of perfect pitch?

Assemblage as an act of God, biographers and sociologists to manufacture proving documents




I arrived there early with a patch of sequins glamoring the cloth against my back. Are you amenable to labored proofs of my indifference? The person I don’t claim to be is fastened for a lifetime in and out of sentences. A third of my experience divulges points of happiness. The other two of these relinquish stickpins of remorse. The inflammation I have reached to keep from you seems infinite. And then the seasons will alarm someone who rarely works enough. I’ve sampled my integrity and come up long. I’ve ordered reminiscence to be browned a little, toned, and felt before I close my eyes for several tiny hours. The mince is pulled one thorough way; it is a curse to yield thin slumber anymore. As we were sentenced to be young forever, curfews fell upon the nearby water handsomely at first.

A pinch of paradise, new water, episodes beside tall buildings meeting code

Sheila and Doug talking about collaboration

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