Connecting Through Corona

THE CAPTIVE, CALMED Here in the breeze and the blush Of this sun strummed garden, I sit, part resplendent In nature, and to some extent, great neglect. The people who know of me will hold one face clear Before them, while choosing to be unaware Of the other for which only a handful of names Are suspects. And yet, we are all crimes in one sense, Remaining ignorant of each other. By using these Separations as custom, it would appear that we’re hiding, While shattered and stunned behind glass, Content not to know, or to even see the full picture That in particular I’ve been painting, along with This breath bred for sharing and the kisses I’ve kept Behind masks. But to those I love and have loved, I invoke these special spirits in summer. I share my work and my worries as you flicker And flash between leaves. You are in my thoughts Constantly as the worlds we knew arc past orbits, And this new Space Station, complete with the shadows

WHAT STARS SEE Currently, my chief occupation is thought, Almost to the exclusion of reading. So, in this House of books, I am writing, as if from an Entirely separate space. There is clearly a need To construct, now that the future seems emptied, And I do not know when work claims me. It could be next week, or, next year. There’s no trace. Or, no year at all, as consumed by thought, All is questioned. What I believed I enjoyed is now Challenged, as others survival strains call for change. And so, I sit inside this strange day, as even Politics Pales before me. Now that we know of the errors, And of the secrets, too, truth’s a maze. The new Semblance of self-part persuades that we all Can continue, as both the mask and marked distance Becomes a fashion, or, trend that’s worn loose. People always customize pain in the hope That such decoration distracts them. And yet, They do not see that to suffer is to diminish of course And

WIND WRITING I feel a close communion now with all of those Who have left me: heroes like Heathcote, and Harold, Or, my poor parents, ensconced as they are in their heat, Borne from the steadying sunburst of stars while I sit Stricken in part by this weather, glaring through sun Which condemns me, only to then frown and freeze me, Making even a fragmented day incomplete. Woman And man ape themselves at the current time between Measures. At one point, paths to freedom, and then A fast return to the cage, with the desire to be what We were before making Hamlets of both towns And people, as if, soon obstructed, a future unwound Incurs rage. Pace and point aren’t replete, as experience Falls, deleted. In pushing the pen through this poem, I am raking, or so it feels, disturbed earth. There is A heaviness in my hand, not from the lack or need Of invention, but rather to do with who listens, Or reads it, and when. Where’s the worth? Perhaps i

THE END OF URGENCY Time tests. There’s a bind in this strange exchange Around hours. As one day indulges another, with a tired Repeat of itself. All sense of urgency fails, as the corridor Ahead appears endless, and our former footsteps, In rushing to half open doors, provokes health. Now, it seems I have become someone’s cat, Close to the end of its movement, content to sit Inside Summer, or whatever this is, eyes part closed. While the rest of the world hurries on, or does Whatever it feels it needs to do to stay current, While I, Zen, yet zeroed lose first credit, then claim. Nothing’s owed. And nothing returned. Even as I try To make dents on space with this writing, but soon Enough, air reorders like SFX in a film. Words wend Their way, but what will they mend if you listen? What is the urgency in you? Ambition, or cause? What’s been killed? There is that special moment, When you stretch, as you rise to seek your place In the