On the Virus
Glitter-like. It spreads like that. Specs translucid
cling to us, our fickle strands.
Our hands outstretched, startled.
Flecks splatter in our palms, and stick—
Glitter under sheets—our fate embalmed in latex.
Glitter, it crusts—it smears in strokes, and glazes.
We dwindle, but move.
Apart, we persist.
Tomorrow will glisten an iridescent shade.
New artistry, forward-viewing.