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Remote Control


As the sky clotted wounds with gauzy clouds,

the rabbit curled and channeled doctor Jack.

The spectre of that Detroiter appeared

upon command. Some would say he hustled.


“Speak to my flying foil,” the rabbit coaxed.

“If she hears your thesis, she will descend,

which is my legitimate last craving.

Nature has taken back my graceful trait.”


Shadows of the wind leapt off of boulders

and Kevorkian saw the leg mangled.

“The condor and I are long familiar.

I will advocate, but she will decide.”


Within the hour the scavenger had switched

into her indifferent costume, and out

of the television a crystal wind

materialized. Soft evidence swam


in the gentle flow of the drapery

beautifying a Michigan chamber

where a woman waited impatiently

to receive the results of her house call.

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