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by Daniel Hoffman
One searches roads receding1, endlessly receding, receding. The other opens all doors with the same key. Simple. One's quick to wrath2, the wronged, the righteous, the wroth kettledrum. The other loafs by the river, idles and jiggles his line. One conspired3 against statues on stilts4, in his pocket The plot that dooms5 the city. The other's a good son. One proclaims he aims to put the first aardvark in space. The other patiently toils6, making saddles for horseless headmen. One exults7 as he flexes8 the glees of his body, up-down, up-down. The other's hawk-kite would sail, would soar——who has tied it to carrion9 and bones? One's a Tom Fool about money——those pockets are his, with the holes. At his touch, gold reverts10 to the base living substance. The other's a genius, his holdings increase by binary11 fission—— Ownings beget12 their own earnings13, dividend14 without end. One clasps in a bundle and keens for the broken ten laws. The other scratches in Ogham the covenant15 of a moral pagan. One with alacrity16 answers to '121-45-3628?'——'Yes, Sir!' The other bends his knee, doffs17 cap, to no man living or dead. One Does all his doings predetermined by diskette or disc. The other draws his dreams through the eye of the moon. 点击收听单词发音
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