in crosswoods, march eleventh, six o’clock

some people think it
is the doom of a generation—

this speck on the face of a speck.

some people say they see
a cleansing flame—this

thing that punishes the rich
and the old first—and the travellers

and the republicans and the chinese and it shows
that we were right all along about

everything. this speck on the speck
of a speck

sword aflame and raised

and some people pray for a return to
the law as they thought it was—

science and experts and the man
from hope playing saxophone they

tremble that we would continue lurching
towards the abyss—

but never was there any law like that—
we can’t go back to where we never were.

the virus is an angel oh
the virus is an angel

so many of us wish it
to the core of ourselves—

fear and uncomprehension
and extraordinary signs—

takes come in their thousands every day
but no one knows shit

and no one was ready
no one is ready oh

we will hear soon enough.

april, wherever we are

you become so aware of the trees
the flowers change daily hourly minute by minute even
and the woods have their own agenda

the foxes you know think of us plenty
we throw all our bones off the deck
all the old things sit

not long in the wild onions
before the foxes come mute
neighbours we know well

they spend the day coming and going
up and down the stream where we cannot
in a pandemic but we still eat

and they must find it rather strange
to find the courts and places and drives
not deserted by day as usual

but full of vigorous couples and children
on bicycles almost ceaselessly
almost as if we had only just noticed spring

for the first time in history and thinking
it solemn and wondrous cancelled all our normal plans
to focus great concentration

on the miracle.