Sunday, April 19, 2020


The empty city this morning
is nonetheless filled with the kind of light
which explicates the very air,

the kind of breeze that makes flowers
pucker and preen,

the kind of atmosphere that hails each
cirrus cloud drifting by as perfect-
ly mysterious—

no passing sailboats or
circus animals here,
or crude parts of human anatomy—

not when none are permitted
to linger and lie
in any park, field, or meadow nearby,

gazing up and pointing and laughing,
heads pertly propped
on a backpack, or maybe

some blithely divested
and rolled-up old sweatshirt.