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