Let us arrive at a sense of place. Harvard is not a place. Poetry is a gamboling goat or metaphor. The professorial pride of knowing poetry presents a state of acquiescence, socially involved. That is, knowing poetry is a people/social equation. Words create impact and impact creates poems. Poems are far things, of course, but we get near by saying we are near. Statues seem to stay still. Natheless, some kind of evident indication allows for social contract. This may form a less surprise feature, in the words, but as the machine encloses content, content becomes poetry. Do not request froward distinctions. The exact academy has worked out the details.Teacher emphatically the teacher. And since words empty at risk, the flowery garden remains open to requests. Here is the latest poem.
From the thing itself, beyond seasoned aptness. Life is like living but blurred by you were listening. Aspect ratio telemetry in myriad languages smooth as rocks approaches time to look. Words piece together things or things find words. Endlessness is a choice, written big in words as shiny as geese. Words simply take the time in radiation and radical point. Stein wrote the heft of nothing special, start there or whatever. You can slowly adjust the franchise, commodity's inner workings. Subglacial quips, subliminal washouts, frantic azure in the breeze of frosty Friday: these special sparking hallways slyly enjoin. Maybe you read too much into reading too much. Further on is where you’ll stay.
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