After the night, only the one night, house sparrows are trees. Small trees, bush and shrub entities, roots and branch alive. After that night, the reflected world, the house of sparrow dream. In the flick of seed or what on the expansive ground, levee breaks or night is only then. In the day of autumn, the one day, the only day, and house sparrow tribe is in tree or floor of earth in the sky of god’s image. The splay of slide guitar in the town of music, in the breath of time or space (we don’t count a lot). No death exists in the house of sparrow.
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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