2020

Wind sweeps across

our streets

a silent city

only foxes roam.

It is left to sleep to feel

and see the touch of cheeks:

soft fingers six feet apart, crossing 

the bridge of your nose, alone.

The same tone when we speak-

you and I devoid of breath, elbows, moles- 

an entire education, war, peace, 

resting in the hands of our phones.

This heart does not beat strong enough

at two-metre intervals: screens

unfluent in our unspoken gestures

of two bodies too long spent at home.

Darker now:

dawn bleeds through 

these rooms: a shrinking muscle-

swelling skin and crushing bone.

From each triple glaze, the mind refracts 

and echoes empathy of service strain.

A higher wage would be nice:

We merely clap for those who deserve the throne.

April now:

Spring in hushed blue hues,

clouds billowing slight promise of liberty

over sand dune and stone.

In the morning, when buds and bulbs turn

to applaud the solitary chaffinch, a rain begins.

Their roots, renewed, bury deeper yet in hope

that as life decays, it grows.