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.
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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