Hallelujahs in the lockdown
It's not solid, but there it is
bending the length in your hand
enough to break it, till you
slow. The next three seconds are
patient tussling. You push, but stop.
It doesn't respond, because amorphousness
is intelligence. An unwillingness to give
away what it might be. To answer your questions.
You hook your hand
and now that flexible bit of thin is a corkscrew,
persuasive but pushy. After an eternity spent
finding fine words, and trying not to think
about that pain in your back, which might
have been arrowed by a tendril shooting
invisibly from the sink, you let go
because you can hear the water resolving
into the frog choir that greets its own release.
No conversation today went so well, no love
miracled itself into tenders, nothing happened.
Except that I found some trace of myself today.