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,

alone

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 the song of life,

while boisterous onlookers, whose rolling waves of

encouragement adds fuel to the experience,

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.

END