I have murderous thoughts like 

what if the virus should kill us all 

hiding in my home watching 

the earth thaw and the birds 

returned too early worry 

up and down the trees 


Nothing can touch me but song 

and sun through the window 

still I feel this indoor spring 

to be reckless with others 

bare skinned in the biome 

microbes blowing in the breeze 


In our absence the wild ones 

people the streets mute 

specters in tooth and claw 

come to play out our end 

or paw through our garbage 

aloof in smogless blue dawn 


I dream myself dead on a lawn 

rotting near nobody’s garden 

the purple of crocus and splayed 

as if tossed by a wave singing 

long have I lain at the edge 

of this plot dug briefly for you