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.
From the thing itself, beyond seasoned aptness. Life is like living but blurred by you were listening. Aspect ratio telemetry in myriad languages smooth as rocks approaches time to look. Words piece together things or things find words. Endlessness is a choice, written big in words as shiny as geese. Words simply take the time in radiation and radical point. Stein wrote the heft of nothing special, start there or whatever. You can slowly adjust the franchise, commodity's inner workings. Subglacial quips, subliminal washouts, frantic azure in the breeze of frosty Friday: these special sparking hallways slyly enjoin. Maybe you read too much into reading too much. Further on is where you’ll stay.
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