Darting semaphore of crows in sky, on ground, amongst and beyond. They weather. Green things begin with nuclear device. Flicker or cascade in the servient moment as a tree or daffodil. The earth owns a warm, moist crust of preservation. Occult peonies appear, rhyme transforms, you can’t be kidding. You’ve heard the same words in collective tones. Walk a field as a drum, in boom consent. The sun shines into overcast. Water flows very familiar, Concord to Merrimack to the Gulf of Maine. Human tides on course, watched equally by crow and rabbit. Everything affects constitution. The circle begins where the circle began.
The aliens merged with diastrophism. A rush thru the funnel with Dick Cheney prompts a reply, don't you think? The mud of his glance places real time constancy in jeopardy. We really roll with the punches, tho Cheney's eyes tend to ignite squids. His armpits repine with a patient whoosh that smells like blueberries, eternal boundfulness of Dick Cheney brain. In the meantime, like river flocks, we steal a porch. The utter eye jets of the alien enterprise writes an interregnum. We knit a scarf called socialism, which appears on tv as the gravelly person on that show every night. Cheney hams it up. Secondly, dream manifests in the sunlessness of rectilinear retreat, the storm of space. Driven noises suffuse patents. Claims of Obama become structure. Ideas receive graves. Back in the future, where we crowd the bed with details, a fire starts to smell like blueberries. Blueberries include the idea of porches, and shatter indifferently against chalk lines on sidewalks. The peop...
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