Dear Assabet, the
river that meets the Sudbury and floods the Concord. Dear river, you
have moved something. You are not a regional rocket landing for the
sake of what explodes density tribunal once.
River goes out a
spurt of earth to go some earthy miles in an active geology. Then the
way water goes down, a religion of just that way. No guns and that
famous spew right now. Paris is a town to the right of what we have
mapped here. Assabet wants to be just Concord, you can hold your own.
Own is the favoured stance. Poems are wormy things to dignify the
vast whatsis of arrangement. Words.
Words are tomorrow
because today says something says something. We have to lie
sometimes. Add that to nothing and nothing wants more meat. A poem
become instant.
An instant can
handle the track, Aegean waves from after years star meaning moment.
Meaning enters work, telling story, fractal. You
are a useless
reference.
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