That was a time when our laughing angels
took up with crying ghosts, the year a virus,
named after a crown, followed our footfalls—
a killing sovereign working to condemn us.

From our teal sanctuary, the sky-colored shore
with its green-gold floating leaves and sunshine,
we watched his ruthless choices. He ignored
our question: were their sins worse than mine?

And what image rose in a sick man’s eye, plunging
him into the shadowed architecture of memory?
Did his lungs swell till he struggled to swim
past dreamers and dragonfish deep in his sea?

We can dwell in sorrow and follow along
or dance to the clock’s finite, indifferent song.