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.
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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