I know the issue for I have sucked promise from the face of it. I have mingled my freedom with Fluvellin & become amorous. I have become vague by the indeterminacy of Pig Thistle. I am listing toward ruin in the waste of things I know of only in their flourishing. Therefore hopeful as I contemplate the ejaculation of a sun that excites the north wind, stirring the dark where rivers die; a dark that drowns Diptera in the dust the old leave behind; that makes "dirt" the flies of heaven. I am what I could never have reasoned, a scandal of some physical imagination that knows the ignorant rain & the notorious errors that matter. The "gravity" of error that creatures our flux, creatured by a kind of ignorance God is ignorant of.
Plebejus acmon
