Solstice 2020
December, 2020
Each death performs
its own dance,
the choreography of Now
or No, not yet. Wait.
Vaccines descend in heavy
landings, crouched
in cubes of ice. At last.
The planets lumber on
specific tracks, tied like
trolley cars. I can’t be lost
when I carry in my purse
my subway card (expired)
and by my side daughters
who knew our street before
the world spun awry.
But look: how many
victors disregarding
deplorable losses
raise their V signs
indicating soon will
reappear new leaves
softly humming
wordless songs.
By oil or star we hang
upon the balance
of the spheres. Tall trees
throw wide their throats
to sing along, arms adorned
with choirs of nesting birds.
All the city sighs.
2020
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