what you were going to do
you are not going to do
snapped branches, green
leaves blowing in wet wind
sirens and sky flashing
counting seconds on fingers
until thunder rumbles again
lights flicker, then gone, darkness
descends, no netflix or iphone
nature wins again
and when the virus
constricted air from over
58,220 lungs, no one
came to the door
informing us of death’s
arrival, no uniformed soldier’s
solemn words to comfort
ventilator’s failure to save
lives, this war of
no bullets, no answers
to the endless quest
for vaccine’s hopeful solace
we look to blame
those who cannot contain
this invisble reaper, as
if this were one
person’s fault, as if
we could just drop
a nuke and make
it all go away
instead we walk by
black granite names, mourning
the many more, expiring
with each passing day
24 years later i left
without a sound, wearing a
mask like I’d robbed the place
no longer the 23-year old
point reyes camping in the rain
studio-living kid applying to
grad school while dancing at
the elbo room, time has
passed, but that city of hills
dwells forever inside me
yes, it will always have my
heart, but just like everything
we had to part
many years
ago i
cooked rabbit
really rabbits
for there
were two
that i
cut with
my chef’s
knife to
separate meat
from bone
and while
this happened
i whisphered
i’m sorry
your lives
had meaning
we will
eat all
of you
and we
did, but
i was
still sad
bunk beds stacked, thin mattresses
on steel spring decks, this cloistered
container, dorm room coffin where
20-year old boy-men play loud music
ska, reggae, rap, sometimes Phish
trapped inside institutional time
grab sleeping bag, late April night
up fir tree trail to quiet hilltop where
moths float over darken meadow
endless bedroom, alone for slumber
only melodic harp sounds
through iphone earbuds, this
mixed with running water
and soap, my evening
meditation, where grease and
life dissolve in smooth
towel strokes, most nights
i can feel heart
breathing inside, as fingers
cradle cups, plates, pans
i imagine each one
a delicate life, serving
the world, this humble
sink servant, these nothing
moments of pure peace
these evenings I stay up
late, just to see what has
accumulated during quarantine
days, overabundant family
time, the same dog walks
over and over, this darkened
hour is the only quiet space
without Zoom, or TikTok,
Netflix, or email invading
every minute, here I am
again, pretending to write
poems, freedom disguised
as ink words on a page
often the best response
is to give up
abandon all hope of
truly knowing how the
acorn becomes a tree
it just does, and
one day that barked
branched swaying nature
will topple, call it age
or disease, shifting roots
or unsteady ground, but
this too will just happen
and yet, we try so hard
to control all of life
when really, clinging
tightly is like pretending
a summer storm isn’t
made of rain, at some point
we all get wet
nada nothing zilch
absence of all
form, invisible blank
space, that void
empty of everything
vacant desert, arid
dry heaves, alone
in this brain
without thoughts, vast
darkness between stars
and in the midst
of this uncertainty, as
time stands still in
houses, on streets where
dogs are walked five
times a day, and
women, men, wear masks
to stop the virus
within all this, i
sit next to my
son’s slumber and feel
only peace and calm
because this is our
moment, and all is
quiet, and the world
only exists right now
Daniel W. Polk 