Still, Life

Still, Life

 - written during social isolation due to Covid-19

I. Latent

Hysteria has yet to slither tendrils

up the battered door that holds the wreath

that holds the cup of robin eggs tucked well

within the plastic bristles. An incubated faith?

An ignorance? A mottled mix between

the two, surely, sinking deep the latent livelihood

in fetal dreams, the thirsty, forking tongue

of unseen pandemonium a fear unknown,

their total trust instilled in calcium carbonate. 

Sleep well, my trusting clump of ignoramuses! 

You're not alone: the plastic berries, too, refuse to wither at
the sight of women jogging in their surgeon’s masks.  

II. Manifest 

I’ll make no promises. Actually, I will. 

I guarantee you're waking on a topsy-turvy place

where surety is slippery, or sure, at least, to reel

with opaque impermanence. But wait—for this  
is my experience (at times), and insufficient evidence
for blanket fact, as here you'll find a dearth of such.

So no, not you—you wait in surety that each 

and every time you caper back your necks

in fraught expectancy, the unseen will, at last,
be palpable, made manifest, incarnate once

again to answer prayer with coiling worms.
Your eyes closed tight in reverence or ignorance, 

either way I doubt it matters much:

the evidence is piling up that something's

listening. The neighbor's dogs are barking such 

a frightful din! A grandpa shuffles, thin

and weary, latex gloves to keep himself

among the pure. It’s layered thick to say the least—

still, life will find the crevices.