22 March 2020
Autumn holds breath while summer huffs its epilogue. Mornings are more muted as sunrises seep pastel into now and maples shine russet. When daylight saving cadences, soon, the brief reprieve – morning brightness – will be summer’s folding, until the equinox and winter’s prelude. Unless winter refrains from coming, and masquerades as spring.
The COVID19 virus [ ] has manifested in displacement: climate change, global warming, call-to-action, bushfires, extinctions, sea rises [ ] are now in the stalls, forced to watch the crystallising performance of a world interpellated by lung-fire, sham and repetitions of denial.
As I listen – from the disinfected safety of home – to the descending and fracturing modes of change, I tune in to potential death – from disease and decay – before the planet can swivel again, and save itself [with help of course].
Help has isolated itself in bunkers, as if the plague is running in the streets on the backs of dust motes and in the speech of small children. We [the olden folk, the vulnerable, the disabled, the indigenous: all categorised now] wash our hands, dutifully, breathe into tissues we discard, and walk quickly past others masquerading as human like us [ ]
The world – so recently remembered as understood [ ] – is now radically alchemical. How will this transmutation be known? Will it cadence to a chant we can pronounce, or modulate to dissonant, garbling endlessness. There’s a strange screech in the air.
hope collects in the imagination []
distilling fear into
opaque and thrumming
continuity …
