Winter settled in, conglomerate. Grape leaves browned expertly to the end . A constitution settled facts, a moment of frisson. You recognized the imminence of laying low. Lower still in a cold field. Transitory streams turn breathless, the imagination absconds. Did you expect all death, sweeping plenty, or just possibilities of loss. Youth is impossible. Crows stack upon cold winds, culling flight from the air. Exemplars fade into forensic duty. Such words have never before been possible. A poem on these rocky shores seems, just seems. Attitude towards the sun marks solstice, even so. And this is as quiet as you can become, listening as always. Now recognize day as a simple patch.
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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