Describe nappy-earthed surface here.
It scrifts and scuffs the bleeding feet of saints
All six hours lent to the climbing vines, and
fern-fingers thrust toward their soles.
At last we slog forward against the granular
stumbling from hamlet to hamlet, glade to lea
thrashing meadowsweet and purple thistle
a cochlear feastday fast approaching
Tubes and other vessels, not to be
confused with slate-gradations in the cylindrical forests,
torch the luminaria aloft in our purpose
trusting our thrust and propulsion-dust
a gold mist enhaloes the slow procession
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