summer of the virus

tomorrow stretches stitches and a birch

branches through my rib cage.

white skin peels a little like fog molting

or constellations freckling a dark puddle

as july turns over in a comfortable

universe. husk of miracle and

there’s nothing a person can do to be

more beautiful so lay down, survive.

in this summer of virus, ravens camp

on the power lines waiting for something

ugly to die like the men our women

wait for us to become or ariadne

on the beach unwinding a ball of string

toward the center where a monster sleeps.