A letter in the
water near the tree in the way that words go orange on a scale of one
to ten. No one in the ocean but a blue cast of owning all. People are
parking lots, and the lines in their poems look like strip malls. An
advisory from the coast goes to the yellow extent, but green is an
awful lot. These aren't poems as people mean. These are simply
reports of varying degrees, all of which look like rains. Rain is so
purple on plump cold days, more red by simmering ones. We have a lot
to share in a message sort of way.
The work becomes chiding of sunlight. The work is elegy and shaded. The principle ciphers as a god, in the way transience is purpose. Transience works this brief, ending fields, making trees concern. The hell of halting midway identifies the work of burning thru. Forever makes a sign. Sign makes worthy. Indeed the tramp of feet forward concludes any sentences but suggests more. Long sentences, stupid words. The caroling heard by Dante, brilliantine remorse for a better tide. The long road up from down, and turned around. The work then becomes the work now, as stained glass similitude. Anxious in the class structure of catastrophe, the baying song over all. Nothing to do but be done. Ruskin gave you papers to remind you. Slow battering concedes the earth in time. Time being functional and oblique. The worker inside sees the nation by exhalation. Transitive connection sports of culture. The class that ends becomes the class that begins, both left and right.
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