Pandemic Poetry
In a time of disease and social distancing,
the seven-gated city cowers in fear...
I RUN.
at the toothy end of a fox,
up the house-cramped streets
with fire in my calves,
JOSTLES
cradles an empty clay jar that
SLIPS
SLIPS
as I move
JOSTLES
cradles an empty clay jar that
SLIPS
SLIPS
as I move
RUN.
And I Run.
I
AND
And I Run.
RUN.
And I Run.
I
AND
And I Run.
RUN.
And I Run.
I
AND
And I Run.
RUN.
And I Run.
I
AND
And I Run.