The jocular Sumerians who tried hard. They ranged. They predicted Babylon, and that Assyria would be plaintive in outgrowth. We thought to look at writing but were visually impaired. We strove for the idea of striving while finding pieces everywhere. We read of prescient Gilgamesh and his rapt friend. Lethal strokes from the names of deities bedevil us. The quantum of that lasts years, vinyl memory, each as long as Buddha. All this nonsense of sense, we took turns. Those Sumerians at the bitter provoked cycles and drew words. Now there stands a dusted idea. Seasons flatter us with preservation and the idea we serve. Roots bottom out, tree rises high. Only now say words are poetry, only now grasp particular.
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.
Comments