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The peculiar freedom of being overlooked                      there’s a dog,  The poem goes fast around corners. It picks up words and slings them into the back ( but it’s better when the poem drives itself, not Tesla-y, but with its own unseen hands. It grips the wheel, at 10 and 2. Red as any riding-hood, red as pox, this poem revs its V8, musically, and sometimes even plays its horn. A utility poem, it can do all sorts. Climb in the tray ( and it’ll take you out, out for a ...