They carry themselves.
How, I don’t pretend to know.
Their shins, skinned.
Their nails, splintered.
Their lips, cracked.
(Did medical staff
Report these changes?)
On.
Holding no voice
Beyond reedy breathing:
“We are human.
We are human.
We are.”
(Another time,
We would be neighbours.)
On.
That wretch —
If he could stop,
He’d find lung for
Treatise, sermon, song,
Civics or bawdy humour.
(Fairy tales affect
Such transformations.)
On.
Those bones —
If she had papers,
She’d be your sister.
She’d sit your cat, stroking
Vast lacuna…
(But boulevard doors
Swing fast to strangers.)
On. On.
Carry on.
