Evidence sounds like cleats tap dancing on a wedding cake.
I remand this speck of innocence to a germ of origin.
Prickly pear repeat themselves until the yard is glutted with foreign
familiarity.
I command what has loved me into gravity.
I reprimand my inner light for lacking a snuffer.
Memory stays fastened to parental programming.
I defer to baser instincts to premise punishment.
Daylight relaxes sequences of selves from their invisible within-ness.
Sacred cows lack that tinge of endearment claimed by abusive would-be wit.
I would touch a cloud with every good intention.
All my reflexes love me as my hypothetical child remaining very much in
season.
If ever you find yourself in Minneapolis roll up your sleeves and quilt
something.
Sheila E. Murphy
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