Lucky to evaporate in the cushioning sun. even in this historic wind, that changes the weather in a moment. seeds called snowflakes have blown across catastrophic miles, to bring an impulse we know as what our winter is. it is like this, I say to my wife, who is newish to these parts. winter is this place, I share with her. she’s seen winters of deeper snow and harder cold, but I share the special numbers and degrees of this birthplace, which I recognize as close to me. the sun is a hard case sometimes. my wife and I have seen weather in many guises already in our counted months together. this is the deliberation of what we learn, in tired trials (sometimes) and lightly spent evenings. we will have a glass of wine, temperate and without pace, or sometimes during the day, a cup of lasting coffee. we kiss in public, because weather is just and complete: it resides everywhere. and besides that fulcrum I must add the conviction that there is no public. I mean, sometimes I am nervous and noticing, but instead and in chorus, mostly, the public is just an idea to trail, if one wants. one shouldn’t want, I imagine. I imagine, instead, that all weather joins us to the day. the coming hard grey clouds will be one faction, and we’ll share it. my wife sleeps and misses the glimpse of pink that painted the early clouds. in degrees that brief massage will be gone, and the flecks of frozen water, crystallized for us, will tumble in a surface of reflection. the snow on the ground knows how to translate to the sky again without melting, a Biblical sort of immediacy. here we found ourselves guided by reward, or the sensitive distribution of our frail, loving ideas. my own coastal fears liquefy in a slow process but I know my wife is my day. the weather finds a hesitating channel of change, in our strange mild winter, and we will take this key and turn it. adjustments are natural. the clouds grow plump with tidings of snow. winter is with us, in a throbbing condition and detail, but we also change in several views, daily and fittingly. we’ll hold hands as the snow falls, and as evening melts into summer.
The aliens merged with diastrophism. A rush thru the funnel with Dick Cheney prompts a reply, don't you think? The mud of his glance places real time constancy in jeopardy. We really roll with the punches, tho Cheney's eyes tend to ignite squids. His armpits repine with a patient whoosh that smells like blueberries, eternal boundfulness of Dick Cheney brain. In the meantime, like river flocks, we steal a porch. The utter eye jets of the alien enterprise writes an interregnum. We knit a scarf called socialism, which appears on tv as the gravelly person on that show every night. Cheney hams it up. Secondly, dream manifests in the sunlessness of rectilinear retreat, the storm of space. Driven noises suffuse patents. Claims of Obama become structure. Ideas receive graves. Back in the future, where we crowd the bed with details, a fire starts to smell like blueberries. Blueberries include the idea of porches, and shatter indifferently against chalk lines on sidewalks. The peop...
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