* moved he was he many-headed accumulator strophe on the left and at best
* his many-eyed wonder at a world and all it twirled in a grey light and whirled on * glimmer in a wordy many-tongued media morph even old and older he held onto something * he looked with his many-looking manyone and not anyone could see in this frock frolic weasel pop * why not call it one star in the many-starred children's song of the many-wronged mar * he sees us here and we near the many-headed mister who didn't know us on the many-treaded blister * we walked on and he many-talked the talk as people dropped the drop at his feet * the foot of the beat of his one more he of the flung-far manything he made this morning * -- Bob Marcacci > From: Sheila Murphy <[EMAIL PROTECTED]> > Reply-To: "WRYTING-L : Writing and Theory across Disciplines" > <WRYTING-L@LISTSERV.UTORONTO.CA> > Date: Sun, 16 Oct 2005 10:11:40 -0700 > To: WRYTING-L@LISTSERV.UTORONTO.CA > Subject: Sunday Morning > > the more silence that she accumulated > the more profound her instrument > > * > > one butterfly made mint sounds > another offered distribution of the light > > * > > an effigy prods the soul out of fluency > known to imitate young correspondence > > * > > he would not stop paginating his own > unquestioned authority even when looking up > > * > > one cloud held this one cloud > amounted to a misplaced anchoring > > * > > why not lumber along and call it > day-at-a-time synecdoche > > * > > mantras known throughout the neighborhood > appeared yet unacquainted > > * > > while still live reciprocity encountered > doom dependent upon these numbered cylinders > > > > sheila e. murphy
