Any day a cat or a
library or something incendiary. Everyday like a leaf losing
chlorophyll for the moment of winter. Everyday as ribbons of clouds
settle vast questions under the possible theory of sky. Everyday like
warm rain on the exact moment of finally. The earth accepts words tho
not made of them. People accept earth tho not made of it. Stars plink
tiny lutes just for the sake of metaphors and trees. Nothing settles
anything. Winter has a reply, rain is a consequence of no rain. Time
feeds the place where we said something else. We can say something
again, rose and rise.
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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