January 14, 2013

poem from "The Stuttering of Wings" by Sheila E Murphy


all afternoon I have been writing

the biography that you forgot to live

alert me once again to sequins past

their prime and ours, I feel all loose

and clean this morning, every bit

of ink and paint I need is in this

room of harbingers, a permanent

black ink becomes analogous to phone

voice trying to release, having just

mastered the grasp