The cat-like Sanskrit ligature for om moves quickly. Precision seems like law as a child, the voices and signs. Clouds don’t weigh, they fill perfect in the world like perfect. A pictured cloud understands. Hand it to Crow, willing to bleat while pawing the air. Another stands before, and another, even the air feels contingent. Drum beat and paced steps, boil in place. War tribes filling bagpipes sort of way to meander. Anything distinct can be improved while language or just gesture. Thru all the time and busted heart, distance as breath, the instinct of caring, outright. One word at a time until complete, or whatever Dante says in distraction to the Seafarer. Throughout the poem, the speaker explores the.
It begins with a scanning of light, a settlement of words. The lightly fracture of Bird sound begins in the office of seeing. Not sentiment but sense, as cool as Green in the Early days. Pasture resists nonpasture, no one Refers to none. All remains including nothing. Morning Is belief and there simply there. Tides go freshly to the point.
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