Go up the summit of Pisgah and gaze about, to the west, the north, the south, and the east. Look at it well. A small megaton then of morass lifts the scorch of traditional dawn, a new planet from the ruction. Neal Cassady as so many words, lit by a believable sun. “these holy warriors is embalmed”
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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