That city, then, troubles us. Suggestions were crossed off the list when the numbers came up. A billboard flew too far, it took a hobo down. This isn't as surreal as may seem, for the forest muttered into the park, and we couldn't tell the difference.
The angles remain, enclosed in places like Harvard Yard. Look, another pig has torn into the roots of the aged tree! The underlying poem reveals a pure sort of doldrum, as if language could matter to blood. Maybe we're insanely jealous of average. Or just imagine some soft particle enclosed in theory, drifting into the new sun that rose yesterday. It's not the same sun today, is it?
We take benefit from foggy notions, then genuflect with the parade. Not to make that a crime, we're all angels stuck on the same pin. We like our brewed ways, stumping for the justice of one cause after another. Maybe we could invent a noun, give it a verb, and select the perfect adjective to accompany them. In the process, social justice goes up for grabs. We've settled for a language, sort of. Bundles make us happy.
The city has no crime, merely response. This takes us directly to global leaders, who merely respond. Quiet reasons suffocate with a perfectly solid rhyme scheme. The metrics surround us, and we have seasons in perfect order. When we work, the sun blows soft light into gentle corners keeping dust company. What else more to pray for? Perhaps a massive cat on the table, readying to leap for a couch that flies into view with a cultivated reason. Nothing fails so well as tracking the resonance of private suns. We rush toward collapse and squander, surgically secure in our program. Okay, brush that aside, we're surrounded by words, and none of them work hard. What's left but to employ this nation in more mysterious work? Is that scary or what?
