Hello Emily
Dickinson, The tire iron spoke like the wheel it meant to remove. You
have a way with language, going back to words and how they are words,
most of the time. They are not tried and in control, they are spurs
off the broken, lately, seems like, tracking westward with a rush.
The tire speaks of wounded roads, people who are people in roads, and
sometimes. The tire iron works in the background as the foreground.
Emily, we get it. Our president select is a safe house for
transportation models that encumber the old gravity. New gravity, the
boundless fields of exploitable gone, redeems in fervid fashion.
Assonance assists, like any sound in the dark or light. The situation
turns into a situation, some place looks okay for now. We have waited
for the least word, and got it. Emily, two butterflies disappeared.
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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