IN THE DARK HOUR
Should I write a poem when the full moon
fills up the night with the voices of others?
Trills and whistles, croaks, howls and hoots?
In the morning, black birds call to their lovers
across the continent. We bolt the doors,
hiding from friends, neighbors, and a virus
which gnaws on the bones of the civilized.
We’re tossed and fevered by bare a fragment of life.
The sun shines through a quiet pristine sky,
while a cold night mocks our solace in cultivation.
We think we’ll survive, hedging our bets
on this roll of the dice, be it Einstein, Whitman,
or God. We’re waiting for science to save us,
instead of that last call of the dark, just before dawn.