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Some Sentence

 Get up in saturday, prior to sunday, day after friday. Light, a fire. Over yonder, a horizon seeps into view. Sentiment of dawn, sunrise, an establishment of Day in beginning. What are the odds? The colour purple, the colour blue.

Against a backdrop of postwar oak leaves—green, brown, and other important hues—Jack Spicer became a poet of the ages. This significant occurence quantified nothing in exacting measure. He spoke to Lorca and reread Rilke. Those who he disliked he loved with a stretching universe. He enjoyed the commonal of magic. His poems, since then (Death and all) , have become tips for winning the seventh race at Hialeah, or any fit paroxysm. Naturally tho still oddly, he didn’t believe in Florida, but Hialeah Race Track just proved drill, and the relations of the junior and senior poets so untested. We shall speak further of exploits. Red ink shall never bear the weight.

Especially. Sundays that should be Saturdays, but at least aren’t Monday or god forbid Tuesday. The primness of daffodils in the exciting muddy transitive.

One sees in the rain seeing in the rain. As for Spring, the tensile season, it is the Spring that is in the Spring. Trust the words and rely on forgetting their meaning. Sometimes the rain becomes more than more than Chaucer, more than the traces from the day. Jack Spicer showed supremely ludicrous, vexing, an ultimate god in vying practice, hard to get. Now we see the expanse and other words along.

Gorse and grasses graduate like trees. Green.

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