Corina Copp, p.6
THE DAWDLE AFTER THE RAKE
I am blank in the teeming of some crowd,
suckered usually by assuming I am not
and this regard for myself, conquered
On a tram crossing plains decision’s like a pram’s
whistling behind it, the sidewalk has also felt
a catatonic’s whistle, they’ll
recover the spark behind avoidance
as the metal wheels burn the asphalt
the romantic thinks the baby might go flying
or might have been already
anticipated when gruesome
went, it watered the genius in idiocy
Rights, organs, false rights, they go where they can
not to find oars who grow wings and maul ducks
(arterial ducts!) on the dirt, lettered by like walks
I am blank in the teeming of some crowd,
suckered usually by assuming I am not
and this regard for myself, conquered
On a tram crossing plains decision’s like a pram’s
whistling behind it, the sidewalk has also felt
a catatonic’s whistle, they’ll
recover the spark behind avoidance
as the metal wheels burn the asphalt
the romantic thinks the baby might go flying
or might have been already
anticipated when gruesome
went, it watered the genius in idiocy
Rights, organs, false rights, they go where they can
not to find oars who grow wings and maul ducks
(arterial ducts!) on the dirt, lettered by like walks