What would Pablo Neruda have written?
Would he have written of your eyes, so clear blue,
like watching your mother through an window
in ICU, fighting the ventilator?
would he have written of your tiny hands,
fierce against the canvas of the mask, or
would that have been cummings, against the rain?
wondering about the broken shoelace,
Damn. Bukowski. Should we start this over?
Should we stop for Death who kindly stops us,
opens up the sliding door of the van
and pulls us all neatly inside: AC
freezing our bodies against the spiked cells,
that made love to our lungs so fierce, they killed?
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