Voices on the Wind
Turning The Round
by Ken Boe
Who can tell enemies from lovers,
their racing hearts triggering
signals intelligence algorithms
in the computers of the NSA.
Who can tell the wind from the seeds
of the cottonwood breaking at the hedge,
a counter-intelligence of the creek
where the road begins, or for some it ends.
This is where enemies bury bodies.
This is where lovers park to create new ones.
There are many directions here to take.
You can follow the wind, or follow the stream.
Only on the road can you “turn around,”
an illusion of time and space.
As the seed is the wind, the future
is covered over in the spit of the message.
The lovers dig their graves
beneath a satellite dish array
of cottonwood trees connecting
the round of the earth to its spin.
The signals analyst adjusts his dials
on a screen pretending to be analog.
Information presented in pie charts,
like wooden legs screwed into a table.