A curious collection of tree-like impulses radicalized by plain speech and a few clouds. Chords form in distant gatherings, like seeds. Town folk strike intransigent poses amidst documents of wonder. They stand firmly green, brown, or red, with invisible books and long strands of history. You feel akin tho nobody sees the linkage. The weather just produces damp fantasies of clime. The trees and their squirrels and rabbits, crows and toad stools, create a literate pattern of daybreak. Noon becomes a summit of action, night brings autumnal musing. Lo, stretch long from eminent light. The people, even you, extends the tidal dialogue. Somehow, Hart Crane knew something. Emily’s book holds you. You can call everything America. It is just a tree without you in mind.
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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