Two by two, four by four,
eight and a half by eleven they come,
crawling in the crevices.
I lick the pavement, and it goes numb,
dry taste buds that have known only the touch of limestone.
The ants crawl up my nose and down my throat
like a marching band
(tuba, flute, tambourine),
tip-tapping against my esophagus
Moonlight Sonata No. 14.
And they march on
Kirk Gingle is an exceptional man born in the Yukon, though his current whereabouts are not well known. Having previously been published in the Prescott Journal, the Indian Inquirer, and Inkblot Literary Magazine, the odds are against him but not without a fight.