The airplane enveloped a place called Sky. It was a lonely turnstile sort of place where rain drops like musk and clouds are proverbs, for children perhaps. Anyone on the ground has no chance to steal a thing from the plane. This plane is heartache or acrobatic loss or something to be named anon. The changes of the countryside mean anything can be somewhere. One person reaches someone and that someone is a place. The place is a time: has this been said before? Reiteration will never stop the process. Music of fear exchanges heat. Formal entry of water into the surroundings is a dance, haha, or at least a fine process, worthy of academic consideration. When people look up, and the plane is overhead, why, the hayfields erupt with golden light, and trees become oaks of the longest standing. When people look down, the plane is gone, and highly unlikely. Orbic earth maintains its magnetism, association of people with cold, coldest facts. These are alerts and dismal truckstops where the doughnuts are painfully dry, stale, dull. The season of mist and mellow fruitfulness makes us laugh, tho that’s a prediction: we haven’t that time in hand just now. We ride a circle. Above us the plane is a catastrophic realism, going on and on like geese or ducks, seeking water, seeking home, seeking time, seeking place. The plane is just this memory of a future we hand to our lover. Someday, you see, that plane will be ours.
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.
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