Shelter in Place Poem, Days 10 & 11

Not knowing what to say

I look for lines to steal:

late coffee and oranges in a sunny chair.


April is the cruelest month


But logic has no place here.

The sun was warm but the wind was chill.

Somewhere someone was sewing a mask.

A rough beast slouches toward the foothills,

out of the cradle endlessly rocking.

Today we will take a walk

and draw a map.

And what of the dead? They lie without shoes

in their stone boats.

Our maps our meaningless to them,

as theirs are to us, for now.


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