We have all been such good boys and girls
in this, the very worst of years.
We covered our faces, swore off touch,
pressing our foreheads to either side
of the glass. Temporary, yes. But we’ve clung
to this slim bar hanging over the ravine
for a year now. Can you feel your hands?
My every dream ends with a letting go.
Note: I used to write a lot of poetry — it used to be my whole life — and I would hoard them on my computer while sending them to literary journals and waiting for the year-long round trip to have them considered even a handful of times. From now on I’m just going to post them here. If there’s one thing 2020 has convinced me of, it is that existing institutions in pretty much every domain are functionally dead.
