Sunday, February 28, 2016

Chansons Ensemble

Rhyming drone of dance seizes morning or a time. Just about a town and the still grey between words.

Winter nettles or simple glitter of remembered snow on top of the arrogant head of the specious leading figure who, even now, the space between us.

Racist intestinal precinct determines serious claims against any sense of the blue cradling over all. Sigh complete, fellwoing, in the practice after dawn.

A pattern in space until the words make sense. Brass makes music, strings make music, whistling wood makes music. People can surmount the map of mistaking.

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