Your hand with the 82 dollar ring I gave you in the seventies equalling relatively thousands stays as we god-givenly remain surrounded by night air rehearsing all the way to morning light the petit four of nest mentality. If I redeem you I have clothed myself in cellophanic forms of light. Those of us taught to be working have convinced ourselves an honest day of life is worth an honest splinter of an occupation that lives on in its small celebrated pieces mid-air Brandenburg through speakers a priori same integrity runs through our parlor, common to the tube socks and tuxedo atmosphere. My want is just the no fly zone of suffrage as it was defined in little items where no cable has been run.
Tumult as a partially descriptive word enlivening the hemisphere and caulk around the edges we encamera to our suddenly long-lasting lives
Sheila E. Murphy | Snail Mail
Contents | Mudlark No. 8