Speak one sentence at a time, refold the image of allowable gentility, white fence
in the foreground tapped open as cadenza falls within the frame of tested drum brush
when the voice wants in and won’t be touched. Interruptions turn to warbled flash
progressions loudening with pursed reflective silken panes. Are there decibels
to match my crate protecting from the open wilderness? The mute cone stuffed into
the bell held hostage maybe quenched and dreamed from distance to evade
desired margins that keep like some salted thing. A line of melody veers into
some territory sounding citified residual though like land imposing distance
from hither to yon and unexplained. Are there miles to traipse, and how can you
tell lore from unbroken forms of sleep as slipshod moments turn to mileposts?
How many raindrops shift attention to the metal roof or sometimes blaspheming
unintended consequence depicting how the notes fall, the swish blend of wandering
astride flush coverage of bright trails unwalked yet slow with touches of frenzy
not yet lived, not yet meditated into wilderness. Unleavened as firm things are
found more than imposed. The gilt infraction of semitones and suds and wild
momentum toughened into lanes to take into consideration before wind comes true.
The habitat of jazz measures calls for summer to be formed into a feathering
recast as prime numbers joined into a color wheel winced in conforming
that tastes precise as intellect lacking fracas of care when only wind lights
what night requires, sustained awakeness taking comfort in elastic frames.
.
Sheila E. Murphy
.