Witness the Taste for Verbal Continuity
A lurching witness is frozen. His tongue too. The concrete lacks taste and the elements of understanding are continually unkind. Knowing is to witness a prayer, a verbalized beginning whose words we turn to in matters of taste. Like salt it is a real taste continuing to preserve a glimpse of the cured past until we are drowning in verbs that reside in the discontinuity of limbs learning to limp before crawl. Small tastes continue because largess only wilts a speakers' tone. I am calling on the fresh stream that trips newly beaded.
In Reason's Ear They All Rejoice
Between them is the land of broken colors,
Forged in man's minerals, the brassy orator
With her, &c.
Let crackling twigs of white light weave fantastic
Worth beneath a threadbare cover
Lips own love; did I say once: 'I love'?
I was not so stupid.
She took and gave language just as she needed
One girl in a red dress leaves the shopping mall with
Show folks fire-eating;