The transport of iffy poetry made people strange.A nuclear abbey in
language called echoes from teased ceilings with burning light idea a
transcription of just a lot. /When many congeals, gloom resumes/, opined
the abbot or abbe or Edward Albee on the Merv Griffin show. Or reason,
slighting the impressive power of speaking viscous word over time,
saturates the employment of these means with a withering. Poor crowd.
But the sanctity place lets one sit down. the shadows are cool, who is
in the next pew? Is it refrain when Emily Dickinson murmurs equally to
the total light of a firefly, june solstice? This spell contributes to
an ocean in which shadows fill the sanctum. And sank? Please read every
word again. The transport of spiffy people made strange poetry. A new
clear abbey in echoes called language from tea ceilings, climate of
mountain, urge to “go on”. A practice of study in which reviled
formalities resist our resistance causes a response from none and all.
The equal sign lands with a ton. It points everywhere. Poets, of course,
in this situation, are of a mind. Poetry seems to lack use, yet when
thinking begins, poems spend themselves. Equinox in the virtual horizon
could please all, spelled out in words, arrived at like poetry.
Deploying these jutting rocks in downwards strokes uon grim
mountainsides could form a church. That church would make many. We'd
take the dull light in, inside, and settle. Seas flex on shorelines
while winds distribute. A canon testifies, yet as always the light is
low. The text remains obscure, but people are about.
