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?
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.
Comments