Flying in the actual sky—not the blue part, and not in some fuselage of heaviness—into some city fitting snug on the planet exactly in time. Think of this then when people gathered and called for civilization, the real stuff, a sure pattern where words wear. People as peoples understand that Future days such as these will be with us in the future. Now the flying continues as thought above the fierce provocation of some place and history. War has mongered on, like breeding. Titles of books burst forth to lead the way into temporal struggle vis-à-vis how sedentary temples, cathedrals, monuments, and stand out statuary make earth place of moment, however long and ago. Maybe you have watched a crow or other articulation amid expressions of each human act in perceived environment where change et cetera conforms to stasis in the large picture of few words. Your moment is monument, a close terminal. You see the march daily, across wheatfields and tidal hope. Anguish becomes anothe...
poems, fireflies...