The town is perfect,
it climbs in rate of exchange. It has a city in its dreams, dreams of
city seeing. Seeing multitude as a tone, and vision as a plaint, the
town is tons by standards.
We are the people
pieces of the town that settle to the city, vision as a plaint. The
workers, the sleepers, the people fill the streets. Each word they
say fills the words they didn’t say.
We arrive in plenty
looking at the streets. Our plenty fills the streets, filling city
with the town. We step our words closer or far, for reasons of the
sun.
The city is a
perfect climb, perfect plaint, perfect look how we can climb. The
town is only people only stopping some, only eating some, only
talking some, but city in the day.
Not Donald, dear
ones, improbable and zilch. Not that faction filling rivers darkly.
Not that lone and speaking vice of secular remaining but what about
when we just put hands together? What is a river saying now that it
hasn’t said before? Only rivers talk, people can’t begin
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