Here is a work-in-progress

To be is to metaphor, I believe

(Inspired by a list of words, selected at random, from George Oppen's “Of Being Numerous”)

in nothing. Irony shows us ancestry built the vehicle tomorrow. A child can preface this, but morality has dropped. What is this, seated caves? Less. Poor unknown: me, he. What, in a moment, incredibly rasps into unlikely plant grass poetry: artists sail poems. The single source of memoriam, the artist, the theater of william. These literatures are foxholes. Then the artist, what? In memoriam of all materials: all the poems yield excitement from their sources within artists. Incomplete occurrences between speech, never power never exalted, speak on numerous apprenticeships. e.g. “The monument smiled at the pedestrian by night.” Solution? Structure; branches. Comes glass, constructs preface, admits acknowledgements on the matter dear oppen dear niedecker dear matter. A child can outlast language and all its sea. Poems are almost primitive and I doubt the miraculous can be. The sea is dark, the cabins and their planets soar about us, we; animalia. A girl might say the symbol means sign, the light might show there are numerous subways, only few white women. The savvy, plain infantry bulks in halls, ready to undertake the night in relief of a solution, a reconstruction of idiom. As the ladies at parties would sorrow in their discrete notes and pillow books, true artists wool their tongues but in a good boy fashion, all that which they know. However, enlightened by longitude the crowd thus pounds on starlit, killing definition; and I? undoing. It is a neoclassic scene paved by one argument: The infantry stormed the hull, and beauty was felt by all.