From glistening crowns and serrated border walls, from wars and a reliance upon seasons. From fear of paper ballots, from daily conferences. From growing up with sickness as sin and muscling through. The spike, envelope, and membrane proteins create a casing, fusing with the host cell, inflaming alveoli, filling our upside down trees with fluid and debris. Ground-glass opacity, but microbes are but pawns. By executive order, 3,000 steaks a minute, slicing their shoulders. By 1,000 cuts, by a million, by a trillion. From efficiency, most vulnerable, bits of tenderloin. By executive order, whether 5 or 100, veal.
Spring is typically when we flirt, when we unearth, when we speech, when we speech more, with. Others commune with the dead after the harvest moon, my family sweeps tombs after the spring equinox. The sight of her toddling-- quickly, like a penguin-- to the window several times a day, standing there like a cat in a children’s storybook. A cozy perch, or a prison, or a portal. Give me rainbow hair at golden hour, a mid-morning engagement party on the sidewalk, with cheesy-ass saxophone in the light rain. To maintain noise as a social practice. To console her, all those I hope remain implacable. Inspired by Turrell, I attempt to make peace with the shifting elements, but I read that he shut down his installation in the Queens Museum. Now, a luxury condo scrapes the sky he framed.