Voices on the Wind
Voices in the Garden
A Funnel Of Gnats
by Ken Boe
A funnel of gnats siphon up through the forest canopy
its pyramid of atmosphere;
below in cool darkness burrows the antonym,
intersecting with a criss-cross of animal trails.
I searched for the doctors who could heal me.
Through impersonation, I crashed their convention.
The filet was sublime, the gorgeous wine so generous;
my free bag of drug samples grew more and more light.
Soon I had wandered far from the casino
and climbed over a fence into a community garden.
This is where I would rest my eyes,
tucking my body between the raised plots
of two competing families.
When my limousine came to retrieve me
my clothing was matted with broken leaves, twigs, and flower petals,
and a brochure of prophecy.
Open air markets would take over the fallen strip malls
from one corner of the city to the other.
I was dropped at the curb of their heralded forest.
But I did not feel alone, I felt hundreds of limousines
dropping off the scene of the crime, all cameras folded.
Somewhere there had to be a trailhead which those
people who liked to go for walks would have taken,
but an animal trail would do.
The soil was a sponge transmitting elegant messages
popping with energy.
Behind me a pack of sparrows plucked seeds out of arrows.
I briefly listened for the small moving parts,
then pushed inward.