Friday, October 17, 2003

inches toward the nameplate, the famous planting in the royal dirt, the dictated divot in time of war, and the war itself is a reddened haze of insolvent ploughing of open fields, no poetry remaining, the dogs lick blood pleased at the literary effort, and the comfort of treatise within the promulgated union, told of in pictures and detail, pulled together as a story, and the notion that we all can be marvelous, even in this cooling and down feeling, we leaven our bread with turning toward, and as we do so, moments arrayed in settling toward, and the meaning figures in sentence of, fitting a scheme that releases, trusts us to release, we squeeze, fill, trouble again, and then a bluer motion of light, it is a hand held and a stray astonishment at the feeling, saying goodbye, for instance, in that moment

meanwhile, there are aliens in the trees

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