We were told by Ezra Pound that we were told by Ezra Pound. A net appears and fish swim to capture. That much of love inspires and instills a constancy to process. The fish will go away as simple lifesparks but the observer becomes practical in need and almost (slowly) in interest. Poetry survives the crisis of being poetry when crisis becomes sanitary and gobsmacked with unbecoming and strickened advance towards goals of favour, clangour, or simple mulch. How tall was Pound at midday or later then? A cess and a say, boiled together with Martian spoke weird staring at you the consequence. Anyway. Why would poetry be important? Moreso: why would important be poetry? He leaves the wet leaves behind while readers bend in every way.
From the thing itself, beyond seasoned aptness. Life is like living but blurred by you were listening. Aspect ratio telemetry in myriad languages smooth as rocks approaches time to look. Words piece together things or things find words. Endlessness is a choice, written big in words as shiny as geese. Words simply take the time in radiation and radical point. Stein wrote the heft of nothing special, start there or whatever. You can slowly adjust the franchise, commodity's inner workings. Subglacial quips, subliminal washouts, frantic azure in the breeze of frosty Friday: these special sparking hallways slyly enjoin. Maybe you read too much into reading too much. Further on is where you’ll stay.
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