Like that’s gone now. Like how isolation. Like how gold
presses into the firmament at the day’s climax, and how iron
lungs, almost defunct, creep their way back into history. Hold
my bloodied ones, in pulmonary protest, respiratory revenge, so
drenched laughter replaces masks, gloves, and isolation trends.
And voids replace ant colonies — inverted black holes consume
my rib cage, like how gold can almost take the night’s chance
and graze against its image, peeling at edges. Is that
shock gone now too, home blending so tightly into everyone?
I’m cold. Are you cold? Does your blood also redistribute every
spin from the centrifuge, every knitted arm each hour on your loom?
A blanket fashioned from gossamer. Temporary heat constructed from nothing.
Tired from hobbies without really moving, so we danced. Like how
you might have if it weren’t for all of the everything.