A Number of Places in a Single

on the road now slight grey afterthought of cloud on the blue day forever sky

anything is seeded the place is mined

roads are simple reasons blushed past morning fog

tenderly becomes together finding

going on for the time being with hills filled to the eye marker of time

straining the landscape railroad bed all away in the bundle time

a gas station is all anyone used to ask found thing

today trees placed for small forever

monuments of this tree that hillside eager mountain in the trail of light from time here to exactly where stopping point and startling

ease in any thing or left by brook side murmur tower of time or leaning tree

the warm mountainside melts into evening

sentence of impulse just a thought or not even just a stone as hard as a minute ago or even now in good standing

clarified in clouds the certain ejection as factors exist or not patiently settled in the claiming areas where cold and warm replace boundaries meeting then in excise

passing scuttle written in the space between words and clouds mountains and trees each sentence delivered one leaf at a time

in the distance things and something cool stretches orange breezes green basins of waiting and the geologic moment from the top of the sky

busy roads to inroads paths trails and parts of words quickly receding into further review

light slants into the roads and trails to purpose that is eminent selection in the course of exact day

darkness alimentally swoons as a posie fortuitously brilliant in the banging of stars and surveys tender above absurd simplistic clouds the day is never *done*

breeze being the wonder of breath with alliance of words intimated if not voiced so exchanges occur slapdash or heartened the rough land of mountain low and high and seeing something ahead

endings mass quietly in buttressed and inviolable with rooded earth a stone’s throw and alabaster offers the creep of time pine trees or oaks with brightness from elsewhere so much elsewhere

the moon’s glow frees the sun to insinuate and we sink forever with the slant but graveyards are slow and yielding vivid colors launch a word

mountains go and nations never see beyond road debris of exhaust cooler than dogma or the granted planet

every blast of intention fences a word in crusty worker trope coloring the haze

rain brings clouds clouds bring rain circle in time of square

the vantage of colour looms and drifts scale icily insistent with regions of vocabulary and the occasional balloon shocking and plain with certitude and its pleasing opposite the word resting on nothing but the delicate stone below or above

autumn returns with autumn’s return

Words

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.

A Child’s Proletariat Garden

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.

A Screed Left Town

Inside the excuse for nation: leafy tractors (any bonding to the brownness of earth will do). A day’s march from the next day’s march, the love amongst us on a map. The map shows citadel, city in a dell, and abounding fields. The trees have effort to contend with. Bears chuff to excess in a workfarm spring. Something tall rises on the plain. Mills confirm the need for rivers. Troops stop where the food is. Terror provides the function for non-terror, in zones described as war-like. Pictures become words for people sighing. One sees a lack of food, or especial jewels, or the need for frocks made from bison. Another tower seems important for a nation’s existence, one taller than might. It will seem like tradition. You and I are left to explain.

Simple Theories

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