The sky occurs low in our manufactured breath. Clouds surprise you, dotting those sentences you prize. It feels like trees in the beginning. The higher sky feeds birds and dust. Further still, the sky lets planets wander. The feast arrives soon and softening. Something in the time between words serves as space. Call it your own, for now. The sky collects dust and rainfall and whatever you think you have. Derivatives occur as a just plan. You have seen the smoke and soot. The sky stiffens into limits, then a cloud. Recitations meander as easily as the filling of storm drains. The sky up there is the sky in there. You can remember that.
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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