his simple dilating idea rose from tossing snow cauldron, with word webbed to inkling news, or potions of debate, or other odd scattering expanses. we take our care. the winds from ardent closure surround vocables and present. we are tired and yet, true to the something, we sing insular or transit. then questions, like dread opinions. then stones on the road. then the road itself, which is snow torn. we don't care if the snow melts into flowers, we only need a new colour now. and it arrives, bending present light differently, like willing trees to integrate. they will, we will, and the clouds will disperse as unions of rain forests. the singularity resumes with a notion of gusts. spring is in the offing but we are unsure what an offing is. such natural recension in the theory of barns opens a door, the barn fills with light. Whitman saw this years ago, now it is our turn. is that then the nature of poems? let questions sneak into the gloom, and poems pull their share. we are thus given voice, simply. when the poem ends, more can be started...
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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