Giants beneath it all, rumbling upwards to a shaky voice or any currently floated print. Letters, runes – pickpied, pinstruck all beneath our royal yearning. What possibly could stay? Even daydotted Caxton’s press cracks in sitting years. Spoken from older symbol letting through words trace paces above, strung back heavy and groundsent. Upwards with all of the words that won’t stand alone. Left in the morning unvoiced to caution, while sewntight a natural move. Everything is a windowdressing to a deeply felt knowledge of the body. A bit of circus of labor will catch words and drop them at history’s entrance, beneath no vacancy. Let them be placed before, or after, for there was never a spot unfilled in language beyond more decoration. In other countries still strung down to the lowest. Whip’d over Bainbridge cowed over Lundy Wall letters travel too. A day spent fumed, evaporated in bitwhisps when later made narration of it, anything to broaden. This is in knowing of the unseen, moist belly birthing narration . Seen in nearpicked pointed language: the oldest, the lowest.
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