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Civilised Bots

Ray Succre

I walk. I climb across sidewalks and pass a man.
I tumble as small wrappers past a casino.
I encounter a stranger in a heavy coat,
emanated as from a projector within his clothes.

Passing myself in the fog, am I to be
a handshaking man, freight of a civilised bot,
or a fright of mists breaking atoms under boots?

“It’s fresh tonight.” he says going past,
but we are startled at being sudden in fog.

I can’t study shadows to fear their persons,
their civilised bots,
their parents, knifists and neighbors.

Can I walk in my view, a housefly in shoes
or dirty budgerigar clipped at the wing?

Ray Succre

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