tom taylor

lockdown

distant reports are in. the hopeless weave tightens
restraint in freedom’s memory is all but lost now
in the eloquent silences of what does not pertain
to reason’s edge and hysteria’s mentors on the scene

you’d flatten down close to the ground, low crawl
into the sunless distance as if you could hear light
and motive into the scene with others around you
but the air is too thin, the marks leavened in pity

so the hour ceases its unending float and scrum
from where it went astray incrementally into this
this unresplendant sense of what does not change
into its opposite in the hours we have left before us