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.
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