all this lists music as a corner in the roam

toxic shimmy sham causes yaps on bonus tool change nodule smoothie heap count

stoppage clop cools on pseudo ocular rendition splat

blanket stadia barn dance resumes in class fiction barrel roll

soviet key largo reaches desperate measures à la preening in summer wax for a fit lift off topping all collusion in appropriate nest

beyond the window... reached tads of spark meant over all stew function left upon the strict income dance band milder rain forest hoop spring test text optimal mention maestro coligding after these the seats in coming together toward a new longer train trap

aversion transfer dates ease as sob stocking looser story neater than conditional repare squad fabulous size demon knew scads of score drone power throng on set merger talks a ghoul game coming to a tension sheets over frisky name cloud hardily simple junk trade never saddened further than ranch dressage

settle macular hoedown into sentence stricture nominal code swerving bio shriek carrier in all the positions, etc...

* * * * *

blush of blue comes to town. the ageless instant thing involved in moment for the pile of leaves, stessing facts on the logical front. all time slows into a mirrored restless try to keep the language sound. poems in the window itself, do you see?

as much sun as indiffderent to the end of trees. fills skyless clouds or takes away all light to a time, now, that goes away. instant as autumn in hand, drop of leaf like casualty, thru testing but without geese in stubblefield. the moment at a time.

the window itself, in the present dark, the dark present. a picture of time, spent word, language in a lift. takes a word, after tonal weed, sets a picture. window as word and turn around.

could rain instead of what, the wiles of growing season. geese as tributary runupon the stretch, as cold as grey on nerve. dimming brown of until the oak, which holds the leaves instilling, month or two or thru the winter years. ahead is list of many.

black window's dense detail proves nothing. quake on moment seems sure. cool night over all the gusts of impression. this is a natural place.

jet fighter calmly intends the vague sky, brunt grey sequence of cloud factor. tests the sky as meaning place, in armature of nation and besides the speed. learns a moment as a window place, the rush toward something that's away. and firing on thru, autumnal effect and rather chill. the sound is gone, the view is not.

in the sky with the grey hesitation at the cusp of caring, death like a whistle thru the left of words, right to the window, which lightens. a colour being part of the total light, tapping into how morning grows. were there stars in the sky, or reflected planets, or just a little time away?

stilted blackness certainly asserts night. not loss, which doesn't leave anyway, but the divot of turf called summer. it was in the window too. it grew the grass that can be seen thru the gauzy. seeds are full and forever a plunge into soil to happen. time's a colour on a spinning.

window possibly files rain into the end of one minute, join of another. traits of greyish, in a dawn alleviating movement from the berth of night. defintion structures rise from dreams, surely as a dry leaf acceptable in the window.

just a window as black, and you'll be a blade of grass some day. someday you will be a window, with a blade of grass. autumn hangs darkness on the street and into trees for a ride forever. you'll attend. the stringing sound of wind in the trees, the autumn boring in, a close window as you think, this picture near an ending that doesn't stay the end.

fill the grey dust of average sky. perch of oak as getting colder. separate for now the hint of afternoon, the end of all grass, the survey under rainy theory. we're still 'there', meaning 'here', examining the particular. leave it to language to learn.

nation-states of clouds running pink in the upward climb of day. the matter of peeking. a street runs to places under that, for moments till the next turn.

clear as blue, and you'll want your own. at the top branch of the green oak, scratch of morning. offeratory to contrail wedged into sunlihgt. tough reading of cold sky while measure of season makes almost sense.

collects darkness in moments, spreads them in darkness, moments, motion, brings street to even, then it's gone, like death in a family, or nod on a topic, autumn run to end.

descriptive tourney breathes fresh air. it's called rain, the natural state of falling all around. and the street is some federal place, just in between other places, gridded for excellence in location and position. autumn isn't all fire. thoughts drag around.

language is a street or two, lamp lit thru the night. on morning's call a diffrent residue of intending. each harmonic has a chance and playing. ground to earth and flight of sky that delivers, the pictures stand the test.

evening is just about night. we live in definitions, and when they don't work, we look around. the darkness of intent, in the meeting of edge in sky. the sky is a pasture of stars, until written down too prosaically. here's the time and darkcool structure. tomorrow brings a morning.

last minute suddenly the trees. busy at the grinding down of leave for what. a pile. the pile is earth, or eventually you will see the land in more. well the plane overhead, seems, and the trees are full. autumn at the right of time, or left. how do we know?

adamant grey skies or grade skies or even the way iron means something in nationalistic terms. struck holes in white stuff, for miserable blue, if you're thinking summer has more time. struck but instant, purpose of containing. street wet withal and for moments.

melodious morning or contrivance thereof. short brush with darkness, cat, hunger. clump of determined work, a word at a time. dog to go out, cat to wander inside, both will eat. I will eat. there's monday starting.

afternoon again arrives, clearing clouds and setting picture forward to our evening. our evening feeds or fills autumn, into the rustle of leaves, a chill some time, and waiting. waiting in the street maybe, with the dog along, and Orion's belt visible, or waiting to the point, the cool happenstance. still green oak leaves, proposals of orange. yellow and red in other trees. days in pictures.

history in a sunday moment, bluest sky forever. tramp of leaves downward, thru wet as once to discover. in tow of morning made a day, in data sheets toward language paused as sung. little notes assure.

spot of the dark, upon the edgy morn. crisis slants the vertical sun into all the apt and oblong colours. lots to bending in, too, lots to smooth. more open while we can, at morning at the day. figures on this lift recede or play in time.

depend an evening. the road as a black. children in some instance playing loudly to the night. what is the intention of saturday, the night along so much? tour years in play or what have you.

begins in this new light, after noon. the street is grey and sequent. gross fleeing clouds, enumerating a heaven of sorts. well, a political climate, over us and above all. say what you will, it is a beginning... keep you posted...