Risk seemed sexual, unthinking, taken prior to my speaking in a language unfamiliar to named skin. What was the resilience trying to be worked, I asked myself. There is no leaning into body warmth, no shame, no cardboard box, no certainty. To paint a reasonable morning, I configured obligation and immersed myself in what appeared a lightened version of the trespass. Wild rice, furnace, time of apparition. Ice sculpture "I saw it with my own eyes, honest..." urgent as desire for miracles. Curved pelt near wheat, the surface glow's immaculate inherency.
Treason, neighbors who do not speak (volumes), certain dissimilar repair
Sheila E. Murphy | Washing on the Pretty Line
Contents | Mudlark No. 8