Some hells have a bright green park

in the center

Where birds string red wires

from twelve low clouds

to a single blade of grass

Where insects assemble blue shadows

under stones

under running water

under a fallen branch


I became a surrealist because I needed the universal clocks

I needed a sky

and a sorry birdsong

I had to know a beginning before the end

All poems by Br. Tom Murphy, O. Carm.

My Poems

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