Day 8 Start With A Line

Frontier


for my bones are shuddering
                              Psalms 6.3

my bones are shuddering                                  
in their number at day’s end        

counted in hotspots and hope
blame and hate as the virus—  
indiscriminate—takes all
the beloveds—the ones
with songs, the ones who
caught the tune and danced
exposed in love and work
to microscopic
chance swerved
apocalyptic

in springtime
sunlight
infection
blooms red
across the map
of New Corona
such bleak frontier
the stuff of thrillers

now we live (and die) here