The Canadians, avec
joie (a kind of joy), survey the field of pommes de terres.
The vrai pomme, true
apple to its specfic tree, sends diminishing chlorofyl to the honest
aether of sky on and on.
The
native earth (American or
otherwise) escorts dilations
of political hope and indeed exact words to a place of people and
things, even into the evening light. People think things in this
light.
As
soon as the flood receded, tout le monde
described kings and queens and sweet oligarchs to their breathless
journals. Words were invented forever.
Les Américains,
sufferable for blemish and actionable taint, decide to blunt the
scorn-filled trumpet. Allons enfants,
the tractor bites the rickshaw.
The
brackish waters of clout resume majesty. Donald Trump has an asshole
in his head. He is an homme, tant pis, and
always will be.
What
wind, then,
across the waters of trust now? Nous sommes arrivées
in the sanction of matter as
mendicant purpose. Un livre
invents Ben Carson. For today, c'est tout.
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