There's an art to everything. How the rain means April and an ongoingness like that of song until at last it ends. A centuries-old set of silver handbells that once an altar boy swung, processing...You're the same wilderness you've always been, slashing through briars, the bracken of
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Coral-bells purpled the fallen sycamore leaves, dead, the dead versus those who attempted death, versus those who effectively fashioned out of such attempts a style akin to electric guitar shimmer swelling and unswelling like starlings when they first lift off, or like stars when, from their fixed sway, they come suddenly loose, any man letting at last go of a career spent swallowing—trying to—catastrophe’s jewel-studded tail, un- swallowable, because holy, in the way of fanfare, its gift for persuasion, how it can make of what’s ordinary, and therefore flawed of course, a thing that’s holy, for a time it seemed so, didn’t restlessness seem to be, little god of making, no less impossible in the end than any of the gods, where’s the holiness, they sleep never, they tire infrequently, to be tired bores them, distraction refined by damage would be their drug of choice hands down, if they could choose, even they don’t get to.