A tree, spaced with winking, constitutes long mountain bound with radiant intention, like a boulder. Throng of mentioned boulders continues in bunting on a pole, stretches of rock strewn shoreline, lonely mountain. After ages of clear poems, the words were tired, tried. We winked in the beginning, with Saturday sunlight, a whiff of the sea. Sensual moment. The clouds were as heavy as figs, the streaming of desert down thru the ages. Then this desperate love of love, into the future, and we hold hands. This is a flow, with clouds that swell, with a crunch of sand, political intention in rock, a shoreline with comfort. The yachts are happy, a breeze surplice supplied, and a day is acquired. Acquired begs the day. The tree is filled with clusters of sunlight, flow of sensation, and the imprint of going on. Suddenly, this is present, like a poem. Now is known to happen.
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.
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