In Shelter

April, with cities not yet completely 
convinced that the air they breathe 

is filled with millions of lethal particles— 
what is the difference between air mottled 

with simple, burnished dust and this plague 
that enters our houses to take up residence 

in the upside-down chandeliers next to our 
hearts? Time is out of its usual dispensers: 

no more horse-drawn carriages clocking 
circles around the park, no more log books 

and sign-in sheets spread open in building 
lobbies; no more waiting in line for tables. 

The Spanish bluebells are out; streams 
begin to clear of softwood and rot, and 

the heart of day seems as quiet as night.
How did it take so long to get to this  

place of listening, with that deep silence
the only thing that's returned to us? 

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