How does your metaphysics mend a net? Out on the beach, the carpenters, hungrily planing sea-scrolls from the surface of whale bone, steal rich, salt-heavy breaths from the sea. Crawling after their proverbs, white spiders spinning a stolen wisdom (soaked in oil and set, a fine headdress!) against the rough-plowed sky of errors, eyes outward to a world of hidden grassquit. Now thirty-three years hence, to have heard anything of the nations of standing water in the eye of man is to be their final fugitive. The sun sinking into the metals of night, crying: "Empire is not so, he only shall the earth's shadows know cast from the fires of his imagined commandment." This is the office of purer things. We have cast off the prison cant of our philosophy, witness well to winter's well-lit sin, dutiful as a schoolmaster to punishment. To provoke the planets to quarrel, those old idle wire-drawn feuds inherit the time-annihilating divisions of the world forthcoming.

The body left helpless in a trunk; excesses of woods, rivers, a cloud and fire, filling Christ's den with the smoke of sensible objects. Out through the window, in the wilds of thought itself incapable of thought, where the waves' attractions, persuasions pulling towards its kingly title, slowly rearing as a ridge of truth. Whistling kettles trying to recount the legend. "Expect poison," goes the frowning fool's account, and we must confess to our faculties of falsity, lying out on the fault lines, ley lines of failure and fabrication. As stony law to dust, loosening it with a seeming fondness, providence is a river which runs in patterns of rude adaptation, the harper rafted along on a beam of blood. Give and go like the summer's day which learns not by a machine ear. Every moment eclipses the next, in involuntary bereavement, for it is our affection to instants that overpowers us to misery. This is a cultivated machinery, run on bad sense and water, our kernel of art. Or so said the axe before he met the worm.

I have seen the palace slithered down to a coil of cord. There is a popular view of grace that says the desert may be reaped, that by my vigor I may sculpture a swarming population, lantern-bearers, and to circumstance supply a proper heroism. An arrow escapes from the fog of genius, the one good curse to arise from the balance of mists. Every grain of little distance a new testimony—for the trees show that men will not go out for any new truths. As obscure as gout, his inexcusable habit of flowers blossoms as blossoms blot some blobsome buzzsaw sun. A waft of autumn lifted on the shabby fingers of curling leaves. No blasphemies could inspire a contemplation for depth, to have the earth as more than skin or apparition of faith. If we call this fortune, this burning road of two hundred thousand thousand rubies, we shall find no familiar among the ranks of beasts, men, or berries. So unmercifully disposed of, that merest first motion.

As ever, with a cunning amassed in the width of a hundred centuries, he tallies each the heavy penalties of our long toilsome sleep. Marching in bonebitter haste to stand hunger-bitten shivering beneath rags of utterance and other things aeriform. Thus, the innumerable fraction of the extraneous dissolved and undertook the weave of a too dense unalterable. Beneath the face of things is a perfect magma. Where can one find neutral in the crucible? The occasion shortly after referred to as analogy, manifest as night in the unhappy accidental. The spiritual artist eyes these tools with suspicion. From their wrappages seeps an internment, basilisk-glance caught crystal in hammerhead swing. Instead, make not bad worse. Paper and gray half-light, so gentle, noiseless, what lies simmering in the ground, still in the green-mantled, seed-hurling spin of spring.