Virus

  buds,and
a lonely wasp
furnishing the garden
with off-springs,and
tepid water
and rare blue bells ,and rare
white bells , simultaneously
around your face and
this garden treated
with manure and faith,
the gardener hummers the wind
the clouds above
and below,there
must be a feeling that creeps
like a insects or microbe
creating this impulse to hammer
making the distinctive sound
of words like repetitive melodies
which tell us that something
will stand up or lay flat
undoubtedly
forever ?
we have hammered rails
coffins, mostly wood and
plaster.
Would this wasp, the spring buds
memorize your name?
would it give us an indication
of when the fear has left us
unable to make sense
following orders,
pressing for an end,
knowing that the epidemic
started in the miserable streets
of California or Bombay
leaving us jumping on the number 22 bus
in San Jose
or watching  the homeless man throwing his suitcase
in the river Thames.