The world beyond holds close beneath
the cavernous night, as
fever dreams tear through brain tissue like
the preamble to an autistic dawn.
Soon once hopeful true believers will awaken
with the shudder of cloistered addicts,
their sudden seclusion,
a corrosive reminder that even the most deeply held habits
tally among the casualties of this pathogen’s implacable resolve.
Today, for the first time, a spectral silence will hover where footfalls
and heartbeats annually thrum with a song of life,
while boisterous onlookers whose rolling waves of
encouragement add fuel to the experience instead
remain wrapped in their own sequestered worry.
Ahead, vacancy abounds along the grey–lanced
thoroughfares of impending sorrows,
dogs circle, compacting places of rest,
while a hill called Heartbreak lies bare,
sharing its name, for once, with an entire route,
oblivious to the concessions of men
in this time of ruin.
And the days click over, and hearts
beat stronger, and hope still abides that come the
Fall we will find ourselves together again.