Corina Copp

TAIL WAGGING among the trays, the reddest machinery
is blown every morning. Okay to field description.
In the screen a cold cup of moss
soils her bluest satin gown, bent over profusion
of blushes okay for orange fields. Greets of medicine are
cruel. Hardly a clear day
and no downtown pencil lines. They are engaged,

Petunia, are holding plastic tiles to the sapphire
engaging sky.
Restlessly moving spirits. PRISONERS in vain
are attempting to have their case files reviewed. If a
yellow DRINK appears, musical
with some cement chunks, that girl with numerous
ladles swallows the hurt.

Petunia’s a purist inside the lost data.
And coloration tastes poor
esp. the horizontal lines,
most of all canary paint for 30 years.
A member of the wedding is a blouse ‘till the air.
She’s the member, talking to chairs.
People touch she feels thin exacting pursuit. We
definitely are not going to understand the lines. Claret
booths melt down
a big earful silver sound. Burning and,
sit back up. That seat is “plush!”
And wild are the LAKES.