Fathoms of Mourning
A pandemic sonnet
It was the worst of times, it was the worst of times,
grief became the burden of attempting to wear
two hundred thousand veils,
and the dogs of the world, still needed walking.
No one knows how to mourn for a city,
for an ocean, they keep spooning up handfuls
to touch to their lips, only to feel guilty
standing at the shoreline, contaminated.
Imagine an earthquake, an eruption, a virus,
a president asking to strip-mine the moon
while goats invade the sleeping cities
and sea turtles lay eggs on abandoned beaches.
I have come to dread the morning, the sun,
the sloshing tide of science being ignored.
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