A flying bus all jostle looks honk in sky. That treasure road when people Not so blind. An arithmetic of fancy will save us, say the feathery bus driver. The glossary will let us know. Some towns are cold and chancy, with elevation sold to riches. Yet listen for the hounding. A breath of language in the bus-driven clouds. The best of bird and tree will stay, stay and bright forest. Beneath the bus, all forest and water. The sky remain something blue and fine towards daily then today.
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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