Bucolic Once In The Quarantine

Way past its nine lives life lives

on the ledge of a whining silence.

On the pane a finch opens the book of hymns

between time thumbed pages ten and eleven.

It means morning walks towards

the last phase of the plague quarantine

where the veil thins, and there it will

dwindle, spin to stare at us for one more time.

I avoid the clock. Read the cat's tail.

A finch sits and swings somewhere

where I can both see and unsee its being.

Nine lives gone, life reads on without perusing.


A Storm During The Pandemic

Cops dredge out the flesh of the loss

from a flooded pond. The corpse sports

electricity in its quivering limbs. I pass the scene

wondering if the pandemic exterminated it

or if the cyclone did. Other things also croon within -

The chronicle of the father who went to bring water

after the quake in Turkey. Perhaps it happened in

some other country after the Reich exploded.

We know how they thought the father a thief, and

how they shot some leads.

I pass the dead and the drifters. My gnarled fingers

hold my shopping bag, and my grey cells,

for no reason, hums Havah Nagila.

Two naked boys skimming something in

with a couple of broken branches turn their heads.

Changes During Quarantine

Two coveys of petunias

talk about the absence between.

In those recesses dwell the saints.

The silence they susurrate

perfects the chanting.

I pluck the ones cerise

to bedeck his grave.

The adornment disfigures the crud.

In these too dwell some saints.