Cast clouds, in story, pull humid dozens from the fragments, tellingly. Poised in that muddled precociousness are the Worcesters of dropping down. This is dropping into place, where weather is logical and perceived, and still falling for the reasoning. The news satisfies as a thundercloud cracks. The earth itself lives in language, that is what we keep telling ourselves. A poem is a village where Hillary, Barack and John maunder. Luncheons are served, west backs us. Newspapers get wet in this Worcester of which you speak, said someone from precincts away. Is it truly faring as a taste? The answer is yes, tho blind and alleging. Wiser heads fail. The country of which we speak, a nation, knows no one, not even people. Names are positions in a rule of intent. We hold something to the light, and call it love. It is as strong as that, and bears us. Worcester is a place. so called. Trials and balloons each make advance. Then the poem, of its own volition, turns on the language it gave.
From the thing itself, beyond seasoned aptness. Life is like living but blurred by you were listening. Aspect ratio telemetry in myriad languages smooth as rocks approaches time to look. Words piece together things or things find words. Endlessness is a choice, written big in words as shiny as geese. Words simply take the time in radiation and radical point. Stein wrote the heft of nothing special, start there or whatever. You can slowly adjust the franchise, commodity's inner workings. Subglacial quips, subliminal washouts, frantic azure in the breeze of frosty Friday: these special sparking hallways slyly enjoin. Maybe you read too much into reading too much. Further on is where you’ll stay.
Comments