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Treasuring the longest language, stilling the sun. Absolutes of radiation curl over the waiting for spring. Dolts in their jazzy cars, popular moments in history. One day and all the buds of spring become chilled effort reeling in the government aggregate. We can't tell who the good guys are except that they don't exist. Mr President, where is Mrs President? Who will fight the frightening apportionment? Only buds in spring, with their flower secret, and a still resonance of fine cabal. Why can't we live thru winter, all the trees are dire. And the sentence formed of sighing opens doors to just another taxonomy of language. At least the birds the dummyheads fly nicely in the park, where they grind their teeth like citizens. They are only pieces in the sentence, mere adjectives dressed as nouns, but someday someday someday...

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