Sheila E. Murphy


Situation Ethics

A child comes out of the hot room because we want a successor.
Her performance lacks success regardless of desire we bring.

Our happiness contages toward critical mass.
My espousing any way of speaking brings us close.

If we choose to end our mutual happiness evades the porcelain.
When you miss me it is on account of things that have not happened.

What part of you remains a silhouette?
Trim the lamp a little while I look for you to walk.

In a minute there will be a history to capture.
When I capture it, there will be savory silence.

Not feigned, just breathed open.
Then now this.


Thrice Enticed

Many happiness endorphins limp past home forgetting where we live.
They live in the body of philosophers still incubating.
How can one discern impediments from results?
The cauldron underlies this sacrifice and yellow paint leaves hope discarded.
I have loved you more than once
I have loved your unmade sacrifice
There is no such thing as inequality.
Are you going to the show?
What happens if I stay right here enjoying the noun peace.
Notation is a curried word.
Leave your imprint on the cusp of leisure.
What sect attracts you?
I think that seven of our acts of faith deserve a corresponding overdose
of someone small as silk.
The tones are grim.
We limber how we have condoned our simplified elastic.
No one has a home here.
Are there answers to the questions that exhibit how we are?



Mis-Alignment

Tenor sex infringes upon level threat.
Are you an omniac?
Think face not plate.
Think retro-finger,

State your name.

Do you pore over the available newly minted frock?
This hammock fits.
Who prefers petiteness over wealth?
Who would rather home school a feral kitten than be prized?

He likes to have me listen to the odor of his application
As the language breaks linoleum.
I trust that you are well.
I limit this dugout to a crowded pastime.

Cucumber tastes clear not white.
The inference is where we disagreed.
The mere fence between overtone and absent father . . .
I think the chits have gathered in an interrogatory murmur.

Matchstick limp wrist
scalable at cost.
And pourquoi perfectly
who’s thinking weather half external?


B-Flat

Last I looked you seemed a fact. A plainsong lumbered out of cupboards, and I minced a stain-free melody out of the wincing that I felt aside from how (ah) pure the tone would be. Accept invisible advice and live long in your favorite corridor. Be loved as well constructed silence in the face of overdrawn advance. Intrude where you are wanted before being there. The life long-shared becomes a pinch of wise mistakes. That lariat their way to whipstitch a career out of mild, overdrawn accounts. Bear with that happiness against the lucent color green.

Interminable happenstance occurs in shaped mis-tendencies, all lapsed



Sheila E. Murphy's latest book, The Case of the Lost Objective (Case), an integrated collection of visual and linear poems, has just been published by Otoliths Books.


 
 
 
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