By Philip Kuepper
The earth is become
a ship cruising through space,
which the corona virus is ravaging,
Nature mutating one of its strands,
deadly to existence.
Even to breathe is become
deadly, to breathe,
the basic function of existence.
I breathe. Michael breathes.
The flowers, next us, in our living
African violet, New Guinea impatien,
and grey-green rosemary,
suggesting Provence, here, in Connecticut,
our apartment become
our cabin on earth’s ship,
to help keep the virus at bay,
a state of metaphoric
irony, when I consider
the virus, raging, uncontrolled,
through sailors on one naval vessel,
and civilians caught on cruise ships.
(8 April 2020)