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.
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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