Can’t sleep, can’t wake, can’t shake the fear

there's way too much & yet not enough,

even the cemeteries have closed, our mourning non-essential,

streets stripped, save for coughing bags & pinball dogs streets filled, every awning a ruin of intimacy

and in those face-up dominoes, upended shot glasses

an unending pending, communion now wrought into inches,

every gesture wanton, any friend a priest,

we, body of hesitation supplicants of proximity

prize up bar-grills, entreat from windows,

my feet are trapped in one season

but ready is the kerosene to bring on the next,

lethal trend my hands the kerosene,

my hands are a threat even to heroes