A New Edge to the Same Old Knife

Animated start to the new finish brings the poem to a close. Those trees, vital oaks, shall tassel in the wind. Meanwhile, argent clouds, full of disgust (why must description live so powerfully?) fill tumbling minds with remains and the day. Coastal waters surge, moon gets heavy. The war in Iraq is an exact document, full of holes. Those holes themselves are firm in their resolve, well-peopled, and talk about dying! Name tag Afghanistan, for another example, but don't stop at the end of the list. The moonstruck factors of growing bolder seem to think that uselessness is perfect. Are they touring the same streets that we see? This religion, darkened by mass, hampers any gravitational field. Going down is the new expectation of up. The poem has been favoured for feeling, yet feeling is going boastful: such modern in the times. And furthermore, you want to love, and live in oaks, and smell the effective blue that calls itself sky. This is such a yard and extent to master, like we need masters, like we aren't women and men in particular and thru out the time it takes to say so. The text will start, sometime, maybe. It won't end, because that would prove nothing. Uselessness is the means of saying something out of bounds. Uselessness is the cage of American trials, quick trills in the basic Abu Ghraib story, or whatever. Whatever itself is a feint, it's a name for the district beyond real naming. Okay, the power of exhaust, in the hottest spots, in the trade forever, in the smoke above campus. Critical reading seems nice, critical speaking seems fully, critical poetry has its turning. And all these wiles, these whiles, these times fretted toward the same expansion, the outermost dust called a new universe, and we feel varyingly small. A period starts a sentence not ends it, which is just as the symptoms of the poem demand.