Ten words with a strong violation of practical sense render now possible old teeming when the sentence goes loosened goose. A flock of even more than marvel flips the sky for a profile dalliance. A flock of words, counting to ten, and then a sentence makes a parade. We write poems in our dreams. Our dreams read poems and a flock. As words soon prepare more words, and a poem is only when a crow could stop action, then it has to be Christmas, just to make sense of winter. Now the practice renders a standard and picture. We have poems to bring to neighbours. We sit by the door.
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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