We saw training in the weight of gravity on snow. The thin air of delivery confused our brains. We read that American news, about a change in aspect, about process circumscribed and denoted, about papers flowing to and fro. Thomas Paine was instrument. We read the popular words, in our storm-ridden point in place and time. We read, culled, thought, stopped. We were stopped, Yeti, Excellent English, and me. We stopped on the mountainside, drugged by airlessness and the thrill of being atop. Days spun in fertile instigation. Mallory was right when he pointed to the purpose. We rode our energy to the top of the world. Long Knives, in a cold settle, marched thru marshes, in distinct cold, in answer to world movements. Nothing could be satisfied, not possible. Too much was being read and reread. A constitution, stating certainty and process, was writ in cursive violation. The trumpets of Britain sounded. History took notes and flattened for the facts. We are not confused in our sleep, with oxygen bottle filling our tents, as airless winds buffet our tent. The way still blooms with tribal warning and sedition. Words flex, fail. Yeti stomps into disappearance, as associated native. Excellent English buoys with learning the new English tongue. Tongue is equivocal, and tasteless. I am the understanding of a few years ahead. Snowstorm blinds, and distance indicates loss. Poetry is foolishly filled beyond realm, and the reader must know more. How can the country, as nation, remain distinct in space? Time falters, and just two of us trudge. Yeti is impossible, or rumour. We hope for a moment back, with Yeti still healthy and unabridged. None of this is sure. Long Knives concern a triumph, but the terms were not clearly demarcated. Maybe the nation fails, inculcated with visions of secondary worth. Maybe the basics effuse retention. The wind mounts to the apex of noise, cold is impartial, and wearying is a rite. Only Excellent English and me, with Yeti torn into points of dismay in the snow from nowhere. Somewhere must remain potent and positioned. How can we read further thru the cunning snowfall? Space is time. Time is close. Close is verb. Verb moves nouns to onset. Then what? Not Republicans, one hopes. The Democrats are far behind too. Mountains are impossible. How can we choose?
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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