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