Days of men who have loved the earth and the atmosphere, the discomfort of trees lining the lake, hooks in fog.
Days of men not to worry. Whose rain freezes on the windows like tulle. Whose horses hump. Whose rubbings work around our history of days wearing handsome coats.
Down fall our trouser days. Portland Oregon and slow gin fizz.
We will raise days of men in broken clothes. We will hoist their remnant banners and declare them. Declare and Cut and Squeeze. Make out of them, our days of men. Days breaking slowly upon us, then faster and faster, until we are short with the days. Nubby and unfeeling. Horses of time. Asses of men. The stable buckling under clothy fog.
Days who make themselves a shape and walk in that shape and order accordingly. Their portions and portions and portions. Their notion of hot and cold. Their sides and ours.