Hobos relinquish as ditches. Times change, bears die offensively, and ditches remain. The human potentate decrees that time slices things. Not for us even, but news of Republicans. A course of action settles the ditch. The ditch frequents surveys of pain, but does not count. We are poured into tight situations, the special concrete of our vision, and peddle biological remorse. As homeless as a door folded into coinciding planes until the offering of one sluggish being seems enough for the taxable porch. Speed endures, ponds space out, books dilate, frogs frequent maps, and hobos dock in the dark while raining scores rock. Indent your every paragraph, in the proud excuse for position.
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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