in my town, we bend unlikely things into furniture. this is a signal for our locale. I could tell you where I live, but wouldn’t that diminish the thrill of your consideration, that such specified a place exists? with our power given softly, dreams here flutter agreeably. as testament to this, the citizens of this town (located pragmatically to the north of Brockton, Massachusetts), speak oddly, with gruff, whispery voices full of concern. I find myself writing similarly. you grip this, I hope. I mention all this by way of musing introduction to my point, which simply is: people dispel landmarks because they are named.
here is one name: ¬¬¬¬___________.
this name is an invention determined to prove empirical at some late date. the person attached disowns sundry models of efficiency for the sake of a bruising heretofore. friends, say with me: let him. he doesn’t know that the sombreros of old were hazy reminders of a bolder sun. vague armies marched into Mexico and other sunny republics to claim distinction. such is the torpour of political fact. and what do we do, blessed as vwe are with inklings? we name things.
poetry, thus, is easy to feed to students. our latest example shows an exact but not exacting person who will say someday: I am sorry to bore myself at your expense. boundaries exist, borders and claims. any frequency we accept must become a marvel of timeliness and ownership. we’re all rambunctious and need tuning. we lack someone to talk to, each of us does.
now a lake becomes ponderable. its name functions as a township in which I, for one, named somewhere, can live. this might sound desperate. I am simply a citizen, crass as any but willing to throw books onto the fire. the fire will whip at the night that falls so regularly and undoubted. somewhere in decrees, there exists a position, a formal bending in the cloud mass.