NOW
Now you've made loose with my ravings, this
pencil-point sharp tendentious array. I've got
words slathered like blood in a turnpike crash;
stuff everywhere, headlamps and grills. It's like
a wreck, for sure. I'm wondering to park this heap.
-
Can I find calypso to pace your heart?
Do we need to dance the dance of Nature,
finding God under rocks and in fissures? I'm
really not that sure of anything to say. The
Twenty-first Street telegraph office, I see,
is still open. Shall we now enter to pay?
-
Stop. Dash. Final.
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