Waning gibbous winter heart folded in grum perpetuation of wading on, a poem. Winter performs easily in the death this week in slightly large letters like almost happening now. The casuistry implied in just thinking winter happens, at least a word for that occurs. And now you feel down because crunchy snow or some poorly lit thinning of late season impediments to docility. The same must be right or what can time really do? A bolt of language when someone dies amidst gibbous waning moon like light failing lightness. Where will the tokens be in dark human leaning toward or against? Poetry's specious arguments fail language in this light, the untold smacking cold and finished and finished. You still hear a voice.
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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