words were lank, of a beaming mortal flame, and bent stylus to present: such is the main line of direct. we sink alert process delimiters among swards and rank grass. the fallen snow of cold days stems reaping. mold offers fidelity, spores resume search. we sap a barn door present at the beginning. ether was a poem by Whitman, once. and Lorine Niedecker woke betimes, with Wisconsin made of ice. dreams fell into the murky waster, winter blended with dreams. Zukofsky remained studious, until no time was left. we scrawled a report. it was a definitive moment, only blurrier than regal announcements. a poem written in a language cooled by the window. no, it was a pie, and a hobo stared avidly. the story became something straight from a whirling stutter of words. well and good, sinking and then, lightly, the snow melted, subliminated, settled into reverence. a moment of that word, then all changed. a poise stated resistance, yet that map, it clouded, and we began again. the word was at its prime when we spoke its meat. written, it reserved another space, for us...
The work becomes chiding of sunlight. The work is elegy and shaded. The principle ciphers as a god, in the way transience is purpose. Transience works this brief, ending fields, making trees concern. The hell of halting midway identifies the work of burning thru. Forever makes a sign. Sign makes worthy. Indeed the tramp of feet forward concludes any sentences but suggests more. Long sentences, stupid words. The caroling heard by Dante, brilliantine remorse for a better tide. The long road up from down, and turned around. The work then becomes the work now, as stained glass similitude. Anxious in the class structure of catastrophe, the baying song over all. Nothing to do but be done. Ruskin gave you papers to remind you. Slow battering concedes the earth in time. Time being functional and oblique. The worker inside sees the nation by exhalation. Transitive connection sports of culture. The class that ends becomes the class that begins, both left and right.
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