Voices on the Wind
The Cycle Of Dead Angels
by Ken Boe
A screed of wind unrolls its fist to write
evolution, the clay scarab of approaching storm.
An old leg of hand-hewn armature lays clawing
its way into the story, marking its way up the beach.
The fall and rise of civilization; the bad days good
gone eating ballast, her ship arrives called Humble Pie.
Unfinished markings carved into castaway pieces of drift
word, grains of suffix swollen in hesitation.
The tide pulls at its surface tension, just one memory,
just one secret revealed at an adverse turn.
The looking-wheel unlocking its laughter
until the miracle is broken on a pillar of salt.
What can save the day turned over to night
but a newborn screaming at first daylight?
Quiet is he in the back of the shadow.
His prognosis will be confessed at last breath.
The hero bobs up, the hero sinks down.
We all have our own dead angels.
History settles down to a circle of leaves
scenting the reef with random fell swoop,
as if imagining this place is what wills itself here.
She willed a man who would save the world.
He enters the coffee house not able to choose, like a dog
chasing his own tail until finding just the right spot.