It’s one marginal autumn fraught with the poorest minds of my generation making shame worthy decisions all around and the rest of us concurrently ignoring or delving in or preparing to perform ice sculpting when weather turns amenable to that. I wish you were heretofore astride my ever last but not quite that. Someone please reshuffle the deck. There’s little to scrape by with forthwith. Impolitely I fall awake into the bake sale of pumpkin plump October enslaved to cinnamon why don’t you come in out of the rain ransacking the out-of-doors peopled with scores of thoughts. And the television keeps quizzing me about what has failed to happen yet. Insufficient English breakfast tea say I but you’re not listening. There’s a comatose luft pause steeping to my left. Right now wind corresponds to a guitar not yet pressed. Our stets turn to little inadvertent tete-a-tetes I’ve gone great lengths to override even a breath of dovetail. Wait for my smothering and I’ll bill you for the hours. Snub-nosed weaponry all around and I weep for the nurture measured by calipers. Take me to your rinse worthy prince and allow me to floor the floor with rapport. Surrender Dor- for you’ve got naught. If I must I’ll pluck a certificate for you to trust post-dusting off the rust. Quizzical looks will get you everywhere. Go ahead and tell me what you consider radical meaning to be cleansed through your sift machine spotted with approvals where most sexual indifference rules out crust and transubstantiation suggests you’ve earned your chops.
.
Sheila E. Murphy
.