Tuesday, October 28, 2014

Allen Bramhall

The Average Age of Time

Where the wind went was some time ago. Leaves of a vital purpose turn browner maunder. 
Rains rush in tactics of space adventure. A wind across a parking lot makes discoveries 
and ramps. The sky boldly fills.

Today the ether of planning rumbles with reports of rain. The system collects its moments, 
as do people. We are alive in our placing, the neural venture, the stutter of space. Endlessness 
makes just one part of time.

Other parts adjust the town. Snow will be a sentiment. Daffodils even now are dedicated.

This flurry of reports is the definition of exact. They stay intact for the bracing wind and 
choose rain in the streets. Autumn rises exactly in time, for the time that it takes. The skies are 
not cloudy all day.


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