Poetry will make it if we stick to exciting prologues redshifted to vented arrangements of tonic chimes, which will include plastic chance and a hard won vocabulary. Your betters, including Galway Kinnell, Amy Clampitt, thrones of professors, and the weird excuse of the greeting card, will posit exact change in your dynamic world. A new world turned frisky, that is, with global positioning setting the word's universal pace in the globally global universe. Think of it, hayseed: we have tears some days, guttural laughs on others, and Garrison Keilor is our tall mood of a friend. Imagine teaching all that to freshmen while stating the case for Whitman's bullshit. Meanwhile, all the Melvins are invited for dinner, you the consequence. That means Poet Laureates are loose, and spreading like Klingons.
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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