Losing Control

By Nancy Ames

My control and your control,
with paraplegic law and the
dog-soldiers of Pavlov, are
gathered on the mountain at
sunset, nervous in all the red
light as if anger postponed is
somehow sane, and yelling
indistinguishable words into
the wind, which will carry the
howls of hate and the sour
stench of fear to the audience,
who can tell that there’s no
business like show-business
but don’t worry because they
still look good from a distance
… in the dark.’

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