On our anniversary, many years include. A sighting of many indications past a door or window settles in our view. Muting single adjectives for the fine sentence that says certain words on a bridge, we mark the day. The day invites a child and casts a doubt on doubt itself. This is a strange winter place to start a light action, yet the passing river is advice, dancing pigeons are advice, and words are where we meet. Not the only place, and not the only diction, but we take the touches as they come. Process is mutation, or something like that. We will murmur along the route of feeling, in the snow of feeling, in the field of feeling, in feeling all its own. Human as trek and water and will and when, we are transitory, maybe, but not at this moment. We stay true, in our odd imperial ways, to the slanting deference of our unapology.
From the thing itself, beyond seasoned aptness. Life is like living but blurred by you were listening. Aspect ratio telemetry in myriad languages smooth as rocks approaches time to look. Words piece together things or things find words. Endlessness is a choice, written big in words as shiny as geese. Words simply take the time in radiation and radical point. Stein wrote the heft of nothing special, start there or whatever. You can slowly adjust the franchise, commodity's inner workings. Subglacial quips, subliminal washouts, frantic azure in the breeze of frosty Friday: these special sparking hallways slyly enjoin. Maybe you read too much into reading too much. Further on is where you’ll stay.
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