Sheila E. Murphy

Doo-Dah Squared

Parametric stress sure Monday elevates the crowd to purpose. Oh, you little lemming lines. I pure you to an acreage never mine. Let us stray. The crisis is not opioid. It’s loss of brain. In the indigence of mauve across our decibels, we lay the groundwork to embellish towns. Good rapier warning. Are the waning signs alert enough?

Camptown Races, all the stages of our dowager dominion 

All Saints

In a little while I’ll give a speech. The vacuum’s running in the house. You sleep. The gate outside clicks shut, and I am sipping now cool coffee. Pleasure of a new November means the daylight shines our warm home to the depths. The Wilsons have been married thirty years. Children’s masks are put away. Mirrors need sufficient light to work. Leaves have fallen somewhere and Alberta has an overlay of snow. Our desert tames the restive inclinations of the many tiny roadside sprouts. How linked we are to what we dream. Enclosures that appear protective are mere glass. Last night a lost cat tried to climb gate outside the patio door. Now morning shifts the atmosphere to shared breath.

Is it time, warm indoor feeling of connective tissue, sunlight at whatever strength


I nestle in your voice. How you breathe the warm clef of enclosure. I want you, the sole magificat. All the livelong innocence robusts your way into my heart. Birds, feathers litter the outside. Seamed windows serenify these mountains shaping our eternity. Saplings, tired oaks shedding acorns, picture window of loved fractions/

Mourning doves, rescinded quiet, episodes intact

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