The report of the cornet in the morning sounds like Sarah Palin’s half of the ocean. It is obviously not natural, no cornet is. The sun wobbles on its pretend axis, which causes us to consider Sarah Palin as the last apple in a long line of bananas. Strange, her hooves look fine, her dormancy is equable, and her siren is justly provoking. Somebody tell *Derek Fenner* to read this poem, an iceberg floats in Palin’s half.
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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