The grand sun, lifted into the high standards, resumes its peerage. Each morn, the ocean blue or grey bespeaks some scatter of fact and scandal. We try each period, and in a following wake. Troughs of what we call opinion form stupid. Some boats have no cause. The name of this operation is kitty cat, exactingly demeaning.
Now what, when 11 am seems probable? Even temper abiding the diet of change. We hate the sense that normal doesn't last. It makes us have friends who talk on a slope. The basis for this privilege remains out of sight. It could even last the day.
The angry image of containing seems self-taught. It provokes a barnacle on some diffident pier, colliding with other ideas and means. Proposals then sink into the vision of trough, as human as ghetto. And all the names and numerations rattle the big average cage. The sun seems partial but it isn't really. It doesn't have the words for that.