Once, someone I love told me they had nothing
to live for after the Olympics. I liked the games just fine
but I was never so moved by their absence
until pandemic, when there wasn’t much to do.
We walked compulsively, past the sick
lined for blocks, coughing their way
towards the hospital. And in the park,
LARPers carried on their imitation of life,
hitting each other with foam swords and shields.
So much human spirit in them: able
to pretend enough to fill two lives.
Now I wouldn’t dare describe the sky tonight,
its splendor, but here are some bullet points:
communion wafer moon, a break in the clouds,
a light snow just begun—the empire’s treats
no longer delight and I’m starting to worry myself.
Doesn’t knowing enough to be ashamed
count for something?
