The candidates remind winter that autumn is first. Misty mellow fruitfulness ought to be rights. Rites of autumn spring to mind, that candidates dare to tell us. They tell us the side of the circle, they tell us the center. The circle sits squarely somewhere, derived from association. Release from the drama of knowing no more, the candidates open themselves to circles. Their speech arrives after a while, when talk is cheap enough. Something steadies us as we listen. All purpose relies on the waves, first autumn then winter. Spring and summer seem refused. Someone upstairs vacuums the floor.
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