the grass is winter frost, by its gallicas, born in
direction—passion of the animal, majesty of a king—the suffrage of a woman;
until it circles around, with hell languishing, to know we’ve done our best;
sincere recollection, true art, couldn’t call it quits; a bag of beliefs, an
empty horizon, a soul to his convictions: radical pangs, growth as it stumbles,
to arrive with empty palms. i might in dreariness, made treacherous over gold,
to have impressed angels—the world falling! when time begun, nothing was in
sight, we can’t compute time; multiplying guesses, trees sprouted, skies
enveloped fires—so congested, losing excellence, to have said so little—on matter,
structure, balance, irrational illusion, by rational delusion, so great an
oxymoron. it could have us, a sudden galaxy, trumpets silenced, to make difference
seem spectacular.
