Out of practice,
observing and absorbing
what emerges from the quarantine,
my previous representations
slip off of me with lukewarm determination.
I’m saving all my exaltation for a rainy day,
when things might not be so easy,
a day when fate’s breezy hands
glide over me with their usual splendor.
Tender resignation spreads
like warm breath on a window pane.
The landscape looks lethargic
in a light like this. And in the moment,
it feels like I could snatch the whole damn mess
up in my trembling fingers
and mold it to my liking.
Something a bit more striking to behold
than this rumpled blanket of disease.