(A Concord Mass) The bridge over the raging Concord River startles thoughts into secular bomb bays. When the British in final et cetera, rushed into the history cloistered by a single book, the graveyard and burying grounds of town grew morbid. Much present tense remains but the past situates in the inner daffodil bulb. No one speaks English, exactly. They die on hills, and remain buried, more or less. The less part includes free parking at certain highly-regarded places. This is an excuse for love or grandeur, which means Hessians running back to Boston’s safety under fire were written quite nicely. The season is poetics. 2) Pouring rain comes consummate cause, and the rush of a very fine river. Willow trees grow on you, which makes you what? Lurk is a better pronoun for most people. 3) The topic sentence belongs somewhere where it will be noticed. 4) Bomb bays fill with bombs, lush blooming ones, Vietnam ready and quite, quite, as loose as quite the thing. 5) They talk of l...
poems, fireflies...