you can hear the struggle to breathe, you can intuit the instance of the body’s anticipation of the viral load, of the impact of what is ultimately coming. If you stop for just a moment to admit I don’t want to die before my time then life and what follows after becomes a ritual of self-care. In unbounded space we were bound and tripped up in entanglements; for this is what passes as history. How long have we held our breath? If you listen you can hear the struggle to breathe, to say the unsayable in bounded space. The woman who was speaking said, find the pocket of flesh between the shoulder and the jaw. Cradle the elbow of the arm as it burrows into that hidden space, looking for the pain of tenderness. I say yes when I want the taste of the bud more than the clay. Even the dead trees of winter want to return to life. They have not yet hoisted their banners but the assault is on its way.