Ignite was a
language when we, trees. The time in the way of being in the time
near time when we could be, that was nearly timeless. We could say
anything and a crowd or almost and some agreed, we were for fighting
or fitting. Each word remained in the time or until. We sent messages
or reminded ourselves that messages were peering. And the days of
delivery, those august days that were or were not really, over the
coastal plains and into the fat bring landscape, we heard mountains
once. We had time for nothing but nothing had time for us. So the
language, in conspiring sentence of logic, albeit logic grew that
moist and flowing, like something meaning nothing more. Later anger
became present anger, yesterday’s sad brush painted something
today. No guns were reported to have spoken. We didn’t have time,
much as time liked us.
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