beneath weeping willows we wrest
(in the time of corona)
under the bench a march
of angst behind spare arrows shot
and shaft barb boisterous over
the affairs of a shrub a startling
loud by her devouring
young a cyclists of shout across
the road at the junction
to summit screams up van brunt
all masked (one day this will
seem…)(or not...) families
friends loves distance dumped wind
shunt the other time you start
what you said about dad
i think that when a cyclist falls
off her bike i chance past
your ask at the corner tip
holding on for as long as
ants and sparrows wring
and starlings wage and war
my head in a riving wheel of a cytokine
storm what?
then gravity's sudden suck
that instant we find our wills
caught in a rut and stuck
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