For the People of Paradise, Lost
Your smoke has settled heavy on my city,
200 miles safe from your shock;
here thick thistledown crowding
our valleys and alleys;
the mask aisles rushed and out of stock.
No matter for I am refusing to wear one.
I will breathe the bones of your invalids,
your wind chimes, your house cats,
your albums with black & white photographs.
I will cough your cough;
I will spit your spit.
And it is the least bit
my lungs can do
to ache your unutterable,
to choke on your erasure,
to gag on the guttural of your ruin,
to sigh a sigh that rivals the wolf’s cry
under an orange moon.
Photo Credit: Pixabay.com. Creative Commons License.