God Washes His Hands. A Bat Rules the World. A Poem on the Lockdown. March 2020

This dis-ease of solitude

Or confined comfort

As slow-motion haunts

The quarantine of thought

Of this stealth into lungs

A peril of presence

Blown into porous skin

Breathing our mortality

With isolation as oneness

A shared apartness

Seduced into closed doors

A nailing of nature

With outbreaks of empathy

As wings hover above.

 

A plague upon minds

God washes His hands

A solitary bat rules the world

Species of shrunken space

Amidst broken pottery

And clapping of hands

Wastelands of windows

Lands of untouchables

An alien humanity

A virus of stress

Of numbering of days

On a promised land

To brighten the eye




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