Christmas Father and
Mother, the rock seems like too much continent now. The lacking rain
forms nowhere much on the stuffed land we dream of. Christmas brother
or what you call you now, let the noise remain. There is a story
sitting in revolt. No one has enough. I want you, catalogue, enough
to say town of people town.
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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