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.
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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