It is a regal story, captured at breaking time. That time—which was scrolled across a textile loom, drifting a busy mode—disappears as a fragrant and yet losing issue. The snow will melt with a caution extending into language. Our passive texts submit a lightly flowing river. This river slides by Boston and other towns. We have named it. This river intends to cool the sea, and it does. The sea cools with lost land, and people venture, and a troubling dislocated broil of clumped intentions, all for the future. People as a single thing, touched into the first haze they could imagine, building a city. Now it is this city, standing tall but unknown. Who could possibly know several stories of buildings, as well as several stories of roads leading somewhere else, and several stories of citizens in all tremendousness and new on the day? No, the city is just a blot, which we admire as standard. The city, too, is named. It would have to be. It has made its place, and expects us to make ours. We study the enterprise of royal wishes, excavate for the sake of excavating, and land in a muddle. The dead days of winter that you see everywhere, they are passages and cunning instruments. Each day of winter passes. Summer never does, and spring never exists. Autumn is a lonesome thought, one evening maybe... you are restored... the path is wordy.. you protest... a poem expects more from you...
