Corina Copp, p.6


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