Slabs the size of cities calve
and drift from Greenland glaciers.
Sightseers raise their cameras in victory.
The sun pixellates on the choppy waters
in whose flash-bulb pops flash
triumphant phrases yet to be considered
while a fresh pandemic invests
deeply in loose-knits and articles
plush or humid, undiscovered
like the extra in that low-budget film
appearing in every scene as atmosphere
we don’t acknowledge nor can describe.
It wasn’t the hours of television but
books that ruined us –
all the criteria for our disagreements.
What a song of panic before sleep.
We listen to the ringing phone dissimulate,
lying to everyone that we’re not home.