Simple Theories

Trees were creamed by the partition called light snow. It set the tone for the day: a reliable call to duty, a putty-like religion. The nation, known as ours tho monstrous in its indispose, frittered in the panic of another day old bread. They who marched or looked likely congregated and met glances. It was a rife-toned phlegm coughed vigourously as part of the chilly season. The wind was named Frore, since the situation was special. We have made our verbs count, said one of the throng. Later, a debate grew looser. George W Bush, the second rug on the same floor, brushed up on brushing down. Welladay, the nouns are in charge! There were piebald ponies, strict reasoned clown faces, pounce remains of marching bands, and the hawk of all gritty effort, all for the radical day. We are better, mayhap, now, having spent our last ounce, with adverbs trailing weakly. Who needs the discussion of density, when the electron we trust will not register its place? There is this person, Barack, and hi...

Researchers have floated thru bent grass clearings, trembling with dictation. The reeds of spacious marsh exude trifle as document. Quick foxes set up pounce, with ducks clear of forgiving. Our list of images skirts the real issue: are red planets falling in line? Dolour sweats thru us, cuffing fresh pangs with regency. There are tears in the marsh, the highway, with electric lines and squirrels. Squirrels explain sinking ships to James Cameron, then sadness features film. A rationale exists, again. I wrote this all down. Down lasts three. A day, at least, is covered with fur, tho the foxes all got away. The marsh is a placid dump, a document of people playing fifes. Fifes are a note of freedom, near a highway. When we walk home, the noise is a spectacle, sights are loud. A stunned public leaves their leftovers. Curiously, the Bible stops bandits. A meteorite lights a small acre of sky. Passing cars on plastered highway sway thru various versions. No one gets out of the space vehicle, ...

The wind cuts the snow to pieces, days on end. Our mountain is a vast acceptance, looming such as that. With a language vested in burrowing and cloud, then such a poetry staffs the remainder, poised on the brink of a very word, to say nothing but these words. Then and version, light as a probable cause. So much so that we walked on. On to the summit, a clearing morning view. Excellent English, Truculent Cause, Bonded Onward, and Yeti, tall as a branch. The warm of what we carry makes distinction in the outer world

A day plans winter rivers. Crust on the edge, still moving. Snow fills the trees lightly, will still tumble. Black squirrel makes a poised detail of itself, to asseverate a reign and noon. Whole clouds flatten and exhaust, the day goes on. Compromise is a promise. The squirrel fills deep space, and time will inflate. Winter is a wind, a wetness, cold, some other facts and projects. This tune, then, amidst the facts. Our marriage is loved by us both. Our gambit relies on this. We are filled with something, on this day, which rises thru the snowy clouds. Come spring and come spring. The river is not wide, it pours. Our stance remains. Winter is over before it starts.

The dolmen is shock plentitude. I heard that E died. Everything else is dash, closed, then a whiff of snow. Snow on the marsh, the pity of ducks in their land of water. E died, the alphabet had to remain. E is simple, fills appropriate spaces. Words include, when they can. A last word is vaulting. When we talk, we move to that last word. We wish to vaunt. E was great in some words, and turned some sentences around. E became Emma one day, but I do not have that key. The key can be simple, and a passing, and a when you are ready. Now, I have been to the marsh, before the snow fell. The snow is incredible, it covers anything. Billows of everything else preclude the shift from noting to E. E arrives in a sentence or word, and we let those times impend. If Emma dies, or everything, we take note. The note is E, rhymes with tree, fills the marsh during. Sentences are always complete, complete as the E in everything.

We sleep in going marsh, but particularly include clouds. Clouds are wrench fist and then mountaintop. Top is peak, the roof of wisdom, until all that air beneath the feet brings down along a radiant enterprise. I love is the phrase upon nowadays and intended. I love, graceful italics, the union of pleasant and past. given the marsh, and expression database of mountaintop, and the cool phrase of coming days, we can welcome, love, our beneficent approach. We will help where we can, then stack phrase on phrase. Sentences are for anyone, brilliantly. We will find the stream, that runs from the snow, that plumbs the downhill mountain extant, and there we trail. This is our rate and panting. A tributary vets the river, river vets the sea. All mountain lifted in cloud then looking across the way at the next mountaintop, next tributary. All foxes frame a story of foxes. All mountains likewise. People have words. Words are great.

Legislated marsh, with wind across a moment finding torrents of last hour battering some compost and the organisms under a rock, till the chill refers to some class of registration, the sun almost over the trees but untouched, a drill into the same trusting note of change, poised for a the fall of leaves into the full sky, marking a history that rolls, powered by increments of colour turning toward brown, all in an enclosed figure set, each item named as seen, like a crow whipped in the air current, a squirrel tuned to the nature of rock, a rabbits brighter in force than a planetary bee, all such facts rippling inside the need to talk about them, remaining underscored and drastic, dating the pieces with reverence, now a year in another day, now another day for a year…