I’m sorry, said the tree, the leafy fineness growing pale, I’m sorry to the sky. We like to hide the poetry with words like that. The bumble bee slows to no work at all, Days thin and break into dark wandering, like you know. We have behaved as mysteriously as a piper on the edge of document. You can hear the dusk. We all would like to shake your hand, lift you up from your tumble, and address you in the legionary love. We are all stronger, after all, in the nature of text. The tree is right, righting the congestion by slow turns. A year lasts and lasts, then doesn’t last at all, which addresses the same simplicity as ever. You are a child, and so are we. The panic in your motions just shows the avenues we all have seen. We will pipe the gloaming free, trying in the love in time. If there’s a blue sky telling, let us see and say it together.
Walking is not walking if Gertrude chooses not to walk. The premise: Gertrude Stein is not walking. She may be on a boat, not walking, crossing the wide ocean sea. Leaving inevitable France but not walking. Dramatic but not walking. Sentenced but not walking. There were days of walking but not this day. Reading or just looking but not walking.There were sentences full of walking but not walking. Talking maybe but not walking in or out. A time lived and walking was done then if not now. It was a doing and it was a done. Not forgetting Alice who may have had walking done or even doing. The annals say Leo Stein walked along, up to and including the degree of not walking, along. Those flower names walked along, Matisse, Picasso, Laurencin, in varieties. An adding war or two closed or opened anything jump. Apollinaire in the historical. Languages of shapes and sizes bounding for just the time and a little beyond. And that was the how sentence. In that time but also forward until readi...
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