Sheila E.Murphy: HANDSPRINGS

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Entropy begs questions
To display indifference
Where there is diffidence
The mainstay postures

Good looking prominence
To bear on witness
Having load factors seem
Ambulatory in the worst

Of circumstance and prior
Fever. Posture learns
Indelibly to whine
Because we let it.

We let fly ostinati
Of like-minded
Nature at its crest as seen
Through these reliable binoculars.

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You mood me through
The wavelengths,
Pratfall every consonant
In-debt alliance, like

A crowbar, or a creased
Will, test
Of stamina. The bones
Of it are tight

And brittle, taut
And timed, dyadic
As a wafer under
Temperatures

That weigh more than
Our collective conscience
Fattened by its own PR
And never safe.

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Microversive splendency recaps
Foreign abrasions
Now resembling not now
And then fair-wattled astrocrats

Doom down lob over
The whose-fence-is-this-anyhow
Now bleed-through water-saving crumbs
All spongy and de-sweetened hyphonetically

Jersey-prone as starch limits our havenware
To brighten snuggle spots
And fine-toothed snoring when the leeway
Signs our papers

In defeat, the fricassee takes shoulders
To align with ripened hunger,
Mood rings, and new altar wear's own
Outer extremities and bonding

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Jovial recourse makes the man.
I'm on your white list.
Do you pray?
This continent is very full of caterwaul.

So how is it that the experts
Sustain crates of steadfast
Operettas stinging nettles,
Lasting space we used to love

While hammocking in peace
Paced with the drive to matter
As our ancestors who roamed
Through printed peace

Were riled along the lines
Of steadfast healing, making
Their attempts at sustenance
And being/seeming grounded all the while.

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Inertia needs a breakfront to display
Its opposite through mirrors,
Smoke, arrangements of trespass,
As loungingly digestion faintly passes.

We are all adverse to working through
The damages. The greater fool
Theory bandages our playthings
Until another round comes

Tumbling like the water
From a waterfall. Each moment
She is sensitive she loses
Just a puck of fire.

And we receive reports
Of premises recently broken,
Feelings left unspoken,
Welts of the soul not of the skin.

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Commencement aches for us
To be ourselves as once
We were defined. Old
Friends call us nicknames,

Blister us with shame
Disguised to seem affection,
Smolder with desire
We read as fluently

As we listen
To another's speech. Details
Are spilled on laps,
And people run for cloth

To sever what is spoiled
From what should last.
Things faintly continue
To be things as we define them.

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Democracy waits on table
While we practice using our binoculars
To examine surfaces in hot pursuit
Of root causeways lined up

Behind the only caliber of mercy
Probable. Someone attempting to be
Chronically ill threatens depth perception
As a synonym for passive aggression.

"It's the good looking ones" who throttle
The epidermal backstage hands
Paralyzed in a mimetic snowstorm
Of indefinition slow cooked

On dreadware likened to a cough
That will not go away.
Threads of use sting separatist
Detention with a curvature enforced as climate.

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Apprentices carve the flow
Of cave-in cash and wanton
Brevity. Another way of saying
Debt makes a good neighbor.

Fast friends adroitly erupt
Into their own best
Watering. Our creative
Shows of blatant

Scrim and scree repair
Handsprings from obsessive
Counties that invite them
Back. Whose winnings are these,

With salt positioned to lie down in?
Why are we brethren lastingly?
The forest encompasses these
Types traced to unfounded depth.

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Damages amount to points
Of the and frames connect
To dots within the frames.
These are my photographs,

My careless leaves, my haste
Adroitly pictured by the masses
And the evidence. Behold,
The auspices of veritas.

Oh won't you please
Come homonym with
Stunned vivacity if such
Were portent near

The cozy wall, the stippled
Warfare, and the drudgery
Of keeping clean this house,
The vacuum, this clever fall.

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Good night, the singsong
Thrice would go into
Arrears. These are my
Anecdotes, my votive

Cleavers, and my dapper
Gray pontificate arousal.
Happy are the days
We go our separate ways.

The collar stays are blunt
Curves, and the window
Shines. The life we share
Goes whipping into

Fortress night. We supper
Where we walk. We wait
For creases to be
Smoothed to need.

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