This is not the 14th century, yet. Romney wakes up, with verbs for the force of opinion. We stand in the back room and listen for nouns. These come first. He says the nouns are made of pining material, that wants to own itself. We believe him, his head is squared to the universe. We ask for a verb, and he says multiply. So many things could be so grown. We wait till he satisfies his own moment. What of adjectives, we ask. He says we have quickly become. That seems like no colour at all. Could you try again, Mitt? He wants a hill in Belmont to adjust our lives. It has already adjusted our lives, we reply. Each day is a cardinal virtue, Romney says. Each night of gathering is a stinking fall, we have to say. The swamp repines the moment when he could have been alive. The words resigned, disappointed.
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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