The obvious but trite form of the dreamers are crouched getting stoned drunk. The duck population notices the bread that has been flosting around them for hours, dissolving. The language of essences undresses the perfection of red autumn hills into the glad dark browns with gold. That which is fierce now passing through the silent filter of exxageration. This is what I wanted to hold.
Birds fly South or get ready to.
The sky gets greyer and greyer. Oppression of Winter change and cabin fever. The real revolution is the poem. To act not react. To demand to see Fidel eyeball to eyeball scuffed bark on the estuary.