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12 November 2009 @ 06:43 am
text | Sheila E. Murphy  



from 
THE TWELVE


Storebought Innocence

[ 1 ] My mother, chapter and verse, quietly disguised recognition of the subtleties, capital B. 

[ 2 ] There is this range of opiate endowment that releases how and whether you quiver when (suddenly) it occurs to you that destinations have infinite ways of reaching them.

[ 3 ] Sanctus is a word that must be said thrice; Father Fitz, en route to Glendale to retire.

[ 4 ] Organic beets, carrots, parsnips, onion, celery, cilantro, garlic, ginger, being cooked together, five point five hours.

[ 5 ] Nineteen fifty-one Ford on display along Indian School Road on a November Sunday, gleaming beside its veteran driver and technician.

[ 6 ] Buoyant personality, a spritz of lime juice, holiday behavioral equivalent to Bastille Day, the chamber of a firearm.

[ 7 ] Radio enlists a signature in hesitation green.

[ 8 ] Support hose still at large, in living memory of demarcation lines.


[ 9 ] Leisure warmth, a menacing crispness framing the enclosure we cohabit, ounce of pressure, pound of purity.

[ 10 ] Commencement peach, dry timber, various unlikely cavities.

[ 11 ] Strumpet, postulant, linking arms and singing “Sentimental Journey” while enjoying a fresh look at the harbor.

[ 12 ] Finger sandwiches, topic of choice, ample portions of delectable suggestions, fit for someone of Your Grace’s fine position.