Corona

Pandemic Poetry

Does the whiskey help
me sleep
or will I always see
the crack in the coffin
shining its light
into my one open eye?

In this valley, I walk
between the waves
of an invisible tide,
the inverse
of a fishbowl,
where I am the goldfish
still discovering
my limits.

I’ve seen
the surface of the sun,
it’s kaleidoscopic curtain
seeming to bulge and bend
on unseen currents
of radiance, pure gold
kernels pressed into a ball
and held melty
in a scientist’s hands.

Another day,
another argument online,
another push made
against this stream
of misinformation
where opinion
seems more relevant
than dying.

Wear this mask
and wash your hands,
say a prayer against
the virus, the smell
of rotting flesh
on the wind.