a crippled number fell to the last colour. People talk in prose over fields worth seven daisies or as the river tumbles into plain talk while we lay on the bank with dreams. Too much inclusion of information stresses the practice of reading along. Our heroes form cartoons in nations. Then rains the size of forests wash our hearts. Finally a reason to clam up in wool suits or perfect storms arises. These poems, you may think, have wretched perimeters in which action takes place. Those words were only used once.
