Did we need to be
reminded how temporary we are,
how the earth’s just another
planet revolving around a star—
quickened with the accident
of life, but not forever—
how the universe itself
might blink out like an iris wipe
in a film? 

And reminded by you, the new crown
of viruses, taking center stage
like an egotist at a party,
monopolizing all the frequencies
(always me me me),
who won’t let anyone else speak
about anything?

You are a ferocious
wind seizing my words
as I open my mouth—
my pink-snow-drift bloom
of poems scattered, 
my elegies trying to limn
the essence of someone I loved,
or mourn an ordinary death,
all swallowed and crushed.
                        

I could take an hour for each square
of tile, a day, a week,
square by square by square
stretching into the months ahead,
exceedingly clean.
I could take a toothbrush to
the grout and lovingly scour
the perimeter of each,
as if I were showing my child,
when she was four, how to brush
her teeth. I could admire
the purity and sheen
of every finished inch
of porcelain or border. 

The steam mop hisses
when I stop to take a breath.
Do some molecules of dirt ride
the vapor and suspend
in the air, floating 
on the room’s currents?
I could learn to be present
as I clean the floor.
I could learn not to think
of the future or the past.