staring into certainty delivers Gilgamesh. way back, in the seed stars, new moons conveyed sensation. these moons sow importance, all theory as functional distrait. thus time campaigns in a mobile document, making. poem wins in moon sense, the moon of person. person is poet, or likely story. tendered words or tenderness, applied in a mass, sweat the details. mass is solidly present in terms of energy. a poem makes energy, if words wear weight. when we wait on words, thru years in which stars are berries, leaves, dull roots, and bulbs, then the stars accept. we have stars, then. Gilgamesh arrives. a bending of peace, in the laity of light. then the survival of words includes the making of their comets. their comets infect each avenue of meaning, the orbit round the implicated sun. while the sun tosses gamma sabotage, or what's that other term, reasonable women and men jot down their latest asseverations. they have years to be new. a cluster of forgotten stars then burst, tho Orion remains. in the end, easy expectations complete the picture, but that is not poetry anymore.
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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