People are just names inverted by numbers into cause and effect. So claimed the aspect of intelligence, taxonomic to the heart. The world causes glitters in the sky, which are timeless, and we call them stars. Those stars are hefty enough, reflected on the waters of Lake Chargoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg, near enough to Worcester to be the zest of ocean. Who in the post-glacial days clustered so many letters together, and for what peace? Spillage from existing facts. Graciously, the poets eye the task: to make poetry safe for facts. Our Charles Olson started somewhere, plain American fuddle for the best of reasons. Grace to be born and live as variously as possible, states a rock somewhere else. Earth is a minor plantation. Frank O'Hara meets Elizabeth Bishop in a rickshaw, then everything returned East.
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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