Emily Dickinson started something, time and tide. A match enclosed a flame, perfect fret, a candle was next, a condition, A concrete fact as distributed… Emily woke from the direct statement. A lighter feeling, closer to the moon, but then autumn was at hand. tossing pilgrims into the satisfying wind. This meant another day or two, startled by butterfly, ignored by rocks. Patient, like a quick thing on the edge of something slow, she. Doctored by delight, she stewed then flung, winked then bartered. Whisky was not a real man.
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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