Tone

(1) Nothing that exists can be temporal; still I come to lay this stick upon these altars, those three definitions of sun, the border and thick measure of lost perfection. Sun must acknowledge this state, an iconic message, abrupt invention of death; we shall call it an accomplishment, or a causal relation. The mask measures my intent on a patch of earth, a spent measure, a return, that red unruly seat of the dead. (2) Could the Cusan speak of love as a return, a plentitude of absence, an imprecise count of the dark from which he would always turn? The binukedine know how to entice the expansive energy flowing from grace, an absolute measure, a stellar device. I would propose a failed sun, a sacrifice that spins an ambiguous body in time, in trust to a sacred field, death's other price. Call this, too, an intrinsic order, a rhyme of resuscitated bodies, pure, sublime in their perturbative intent, a concern of rhythms and designs set upon an urn. (3) This must be what is the case, nani in the manifold, dannu, milestone, the embrace of albarga mask, the cold design the solstice will prove. Nothing under law will hold. What established light will move or change the structure of light, light an order to disprove? Speak of the possible mask, of its finite correlation to love, the logical slight derivation and mark of corrupted space, that fugitive event that will leave no trace. (4) Bogged in a bone order, syntax and substance of the passing world, I place my duge in the fragile arms of silence. So much for the quick embrace of the ceasing instant, the chaste argument only the dead can efface. Say that I have written my absolute descent and stable transformation through a sounding tone to one that now is spent. Praise this instant collation, paradox and migration of souls without assurance or the due gift of distance.