She swings huge plates and spins colliders,
Shoots particles at stars to drown,
(Slides coins from ears and tax providers
Which wane and wax from head to gown.)
She juggles charms, scales fractal spaces,
Disapproves as proofs wave down;
Attaches sums to umpteen places,
Makes patent claims her stamping ground.
And no-one starves. We live on hope.
She lets us down, til out of rope.
And there we float where hearts make sense
Which cracks her up as “insolence.”
She walks tight (magic) lines of trope
And scratches in her mind to cope.
Second of “Three Human Types.”
Click here for other poems by Damian Robin.
This poem is among the entries for the Society of Classical Poets’ 2012 Poetry Competition.
