Sheila Murphy


She will recite for you her various
Accomplishments, experience, and wisdom.
There is nothing left to say
Except these three in braids.
If most of us learn by doing,
She lends proof by saying
And repeating all of what is only partly
New to us.
I love the way she weaves the phrases I've just spoken
Into what she soon declares.
It is my only chance
Into her spiel, she crafts the way a salesman
Freshens, let's say, an enthusiastic replay
For an audience with new fatigue
Lacing its breath.

She is the star of every tale.
If I accept this she will always
Love me, her impression of me
Forcefully includes my unconditional
Approval, which in less wry moments than this one
May be in fact enthusiastic.

We have just introduced her to a friend
Who already values her opinion,
Which is equivalent to stoking an already blazing fire
Of information.

I have other things to think about:
My pens, my paper, my hot, hot tea,
My unflagging love of my love.
I allow my mind to wander where no repartee
Beyond my chiming in occasionally
And having it consistently replayed
Is asked.

She is forever our pet expert whom we love
For reasons other than her expertise,
But she appears to be acquiring more to tell
Perhaps for fear of having our affection
Drift and wane.

We could catalogue her stories, code them,
For by now they are becoming old friends,
As she has, and with this decided,
The life of the attachment lives on
At intervals we can predict
While holding out the possibility
Of any theory of surprise.


Cerebral teething hammers frailty into the clock struck blade.
Now we are dunes with femurs.
Now we cloister what we feather trained to work like hope.
The faster the leather, the sooner the dye.
Chromosomes lifted by heather tacitly evoke a lust.
Just try to save me windowly or sever ties. 
The locus any form of bread is
Bathes the hands and loins.
Look as close as warnings at the intuitive spry longings.
Look at the color red drape down as winter marks December.
Clocks are full of hooded mass. 
We hymn our way through
Ventures and the feelings fly with flavor.
Fault lines easily diminish. 
Then the say-so jeremies its way to vulture capital.
The ducks cease being in a row.
Accounts are settled but not settled.
Hardness is the voyage of the unearned day.
How many things are fossiling their way to flurries.
Houses own pink stains.
The neighbors help. 
Our neighborhoods become unnaturally natural.