The bass player in
the middle of direction. Time passed filing date, a logic sent from
when words were. It isn’t easy. A sentence has flowers for
approval, late in the rhythm of only a poem. You want the people
whole. Whole is the heaven of inside. Words as a direct sort of
godthing, laden not prepared. We aren’t the nation of knowing, now
or today or the last thing left. We have to tax and look around
corners. Well. This plain where the dogs and cats adjust to no dogs
and cats. Specious remark left for the space between us. Donald all
trump, you are the gorgeous loss lit finding not a pasture fit for
approval. The sun was blue.
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.
Comments