The Polaroid accordions open in the doctor’s hands.
His labcoat gleams. Within the dark of the Faraday Cage,

Serios sits & sways, seriously stoned
On a hipflask lunch of Crow.
                                              Gone are the shakes

& he’s free to concentrate. The next room over,
Doctor Hurry in repose before an empty wall—

He clicks the camera toggle down, a whir
As the photo spits out.
                                      A month of trials

Leading to a thousand photographs of “mental labor”—
An aerial view of the Denver Hilton, a pillbox

Hat à la Jackie, an iron, a toaster, a blue Corvair,
A Kit Kat bar. Ekphrasis so prosaic

It can’t be faked. The Shaman Self spit out to the air
Of the Mile High City.
                                  On extended boozy wings, it hovers.

   Contributor’s notes

   Introduction
   Something of Us to Prove Our Afterlife: Notes on “Ochre”
   Table of Contents
   Acknowledgements

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