You know you are unique when you have tents in your slumber. The tide of experience rises into various words, some you aren't ready for. The courage of time rotates and you are young. Or old, words cannot tell. And you will be relieved to know, once, a fifth of cotton. Cotton was king when we read about it, but time is grey and whining. We have memories, after all. And what if a poem becomes rational, like the end of a sentence? You will learn to retrieve, but it may be too late.
It begins with a scanning of light, a settlement of words. The lightly fracture of Bird sound begins in the office of seeing. Not sentiment but sense, as cool as Green in the Early days. Pasture resists nonpasture, no one Refers to none. All remains including nothing. Morning Is belief and there simply there. Tides go freshly to the point.
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