Sheila Murphy
	Lauds (9) Tip o' the anger, I'm ignited after all (encore) And the sky is part of a conspiracy to Midwesternize all Maricopa County In a huff of prayer, I see the microbes of infuriation singe my life back into motion Wind is pale and life goes stuttering right forward Paid staff twirl their paraphernalia while I watch detatched About to limber up a new pen with non-reprehensible drawing Thinking why do I not feel And then I do, I feel frustration rapture I go back to sleeping with you while the green tea steeps And I consume morning Americano to even the score of my tap shoes On the pavement along Indian School Road Sunday stretched into the weeklong realization that we're (all of us) Present, accounted for, and situationally ethical, We're breezy and we're fun- Dam(ental)(ly) Way good and long elastic (quite) Into the zone of referenda and perturbing Holdups quicksand foreign bodies into observable stasis Anyone can come and pour redaction on my manuscript And anyone can cast a pall without her B12 shots And anyone can love her neighbor quietly And anyone can find a thing to praise After the barn is raised The kids can phrase their homework into many languages Each one with a drive-by audience of fascinating, fascinated People on the go (not on the run) and room to glow Is patched across the two-point-oh release of thunder Right where the spirit plopped it (We're not talking Michigan, we're talking vitam eternam Rest in peace, amen). Lauds (11) Allow the meantime rain to wash this habitat and circumstance Made blond by morning so that we might parse secular dividends And allocate uneven heart light as if to have been indisposed Would guarantee transfer-of-sadness into a routine That turns to maturation of each undiscovered miracle Before receding into a reciprocal delicion When I talk to you I hear anti-depressant slivers Take down your voice so its incessant melody Begins to lie still as a sacrament and I have something To worship all over Again alongside lifetimes of reflexive architectural Hovering Why can't we photograph the future, that we might Learn what to keep before it has arrived and gone To seed like most offspring and the very thought of them Becoming duplicative memories on the very cusp Of dismay before it gets out That warm waves we used to thing about Could spoil a season leaving us Little to eat too much to earn and nonexistent places We might walk and learn and pluck habitual sacrifice Out of the life