Lace & Wool
The night I was stricken
Struck much fused out brain
The city was picked with holes:
Thrown over me was wool. The virus was
Like a hot iron
Leaving its isosceles triangle singe.
But riding in a trolley
Up to isolation
Past children in striker frames
This was not a slow burn situation
This was ignition
My legs were to become
Thin as the stick figures
Sharp as the lung which glinted in the right corner stage of
room near curtains.