New Pandemic Decree
Non-essential! It takes time to
digest the public offense, bruising the poetic ego
essential only to itself, as broad as the world.
Howling winds, dark clouds, ghost cities,
horizons overbreaming with despair, the low
widespreading doubt and the high feverish days
filled with progressive red dots on world map, the
incalculable pain, spirit out of sight, from my home
so far away from and yet so close to work, I run
hope's high tide hour, caught on its windblown antenna, its gentle touch on my parched lips, manifesting in form God's grace like raindrops on
windows' pane, a poet's disease of tides, insisting
on poetry's essential nourishment of the soul, with lion's pride, uplifting earth's exhausted staff not knowing who'll feed the hungry and the birds – poets
decree their own confinement to rules of beauty, unhinged freedom,
requiring no appeal.
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