All I see is a sparrow, and
a dove
perched on the windowsill
against the glass
and the sunfilm lets me get
quite close up.
All I read is that the deaths
have gone flat
even as the cases fizz and
spiral
I don’t mean to disregard
any pain –
yesterday I heard a friend
of a friend
has passed, a colleague of a
cousin lost
both her parents within
weeks while away,
her mapped mother had
slammed the borders shut
and so she wasn’t in on the
last rites.
I’d heard in childhood even
walls had ears
but now they’ve evolved into
empty eyes
in which one screaming
headline’s reflected
briefly followed by another,
graver -
that chokes off the ability
to scream.
Only the glass shows me a
pair of birds
perched to avoid the worst of
midday heat,
on the wall a death curve that
has flatlined
somehow bends into the outline
of hope
even though it’s probably transient
even though the numbers are
enormous.
For now I have the dove and the sparrow
and no guilt in choosing a
narrow frame.
I have for now much less than a blank wall
and to blot it out, I have
this blank verse.
