In the far light, not the near light. Some Deities or fog, the way light bends around truth or anything like cattle. In truth the word used lays low and patient, like a mushroom. The Deities scamper with playful dated instructions, as everyone knows. Rain seizes the sky. Portents scatter at dusk without much importance. The sun fades again but will return. The respondents, full of winning slur, carry jokes in dull red hats. Their Deities, called gods or tremendous, throw patchwork into the breech. The wind blows instantly, even then.
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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