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God Washes His Hands. A Bat Rules the World. A Poem on the Lockdown. March 2020
This dis-ease of solitude
Or confined comfort
As slow-motion haunts
The quarantine of thought
Of this stealth into lungs
A peril of presence
Blown into porous skin
Breathing our mortality
With isolation as oneness
A shared apartness
Seduced into closed doors
A nailing of nature
With outbreaks of empathy
As wings hover above.
A plague upon minds
God washes His hands
A solitary bat rules the world
Species of shrunken space
Amidst broken pottery
And clapping of hands
Wastelands of windows
Lands of untouchables
An alien humanity
A virus of stress
Of numbering of days
On a promised land
To brighten the eye