Not the Single Notes

Monks continue singing like a salve. The men outside install a drainpipe to avert the downpour funneled just above my door in the infrequent hours that rain occurs. Phone calls interrupt what might be happiness in someone else. I'm in here hiding from the world smelling the incense of imaginary churches trying to preserve my faith. Plainsong needs no compass and no flavor. Not the single notes but their continuance. My each day practices its mattering in front of the ongoing test tube. Maybe when I'm tired I will be happy to lie down. This week intended to be just the miracle we have awaited turns out on Monday to be stinging. I'm not available to perform errands your province. Nor am I awake to your considered jamboree replacing deep connective tissue. There are sufficient thoughts to think. Only dysfunction teaches. My each day devoted to the fixing. She projects what the repair person must know without attempting to absorb it. A pretty quiet atmosphere impacts the slimness. Copy me on shadow mercy for a time. Errors practiced turn out to resist correction. Fluid as they seem to be, there's plenty evidence of the intractible.

Commencement at this time of year and recollection of the melody

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Sheila E. Murphy | He Could Not Sing
Contents | Mudlark No. 8