gnat poem

New poem, no title, first draft, your feedback requested: The weekend of the gnat infestation — I still think they were gnats and not fruit flies — we spent hours in solid concentration with the gadget, the electrified tennis-racket contraption, the thing that killed sometimes silently, sometimes with a sparkler-sized spark. Tiny bodies piled up. Brown or grey bodies too small in motion to see piled up. Suddenly we were a team again, banded together despite last weekend’s argument: Red Team All Systems Go. Was it the gnats, the series of bugs with brains and wings smaller than dust that somehow outfoxed us? We fight something we can barely see, and leave the rest for whatever comes whenever. I hope these are with you. I’ll answer your question...

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