Poetics was a child stuck in the mountains. Cool, river waters ran downward, from the frozen to the liquid, to the provenance of use. Each word enflamed on the mountainside was read with equivocation, the vocation of equality. Certitude reads a passage, presents assertions, melts slowly with factoids. This is what we learned: The wind was furtherance as Long Knives, under aegis of Clark, march thru water up to their chins. Everyone ‘made it’, except that life extends beyond triumph, and the draining is inscribed. Clark’s brother, William, stayed focused, hung on. Lewis, remember him, made a quick dispatch (what story do we hold to?). Now we read of history, it has children. Poetics children ride thru clouds with express purpose. Nightingales, butterflies, boiling hells that Blake and Dante concocted survive for a preamble after which sulking presides. This refers gently to tomes and wet nurses. Sighs engendered noble closeness. How did the poem stick to the words that were laid out in frontal scape? Star Trek® words flap and weaken. Klingons call on warriors. How do the rest of these statements, stored and readied, shape the perfect poem? We give up too soon. Now the mountain sorts the people who will live and die. This is engagement, children. Some people do not like to transact business with the federation, Commander. Simply that catch all…
It begins with a scanning of light, a settlement of words. The lightly fracture of Bird sound begins in the office of seeing. Not sentiment but sense, as cool as Green in the Early days. Pasture resists nonpasture, no one Refers to none. All remains including nothing. Morning Is belief and there simply there. Tides go freshly to the point.
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