a newcomer showers us
with syllables

wherever it falls
a word
without a voice

wet market
a pangolin's distress
goes viral

Palm Sunday
the resounding hosannas
sounding less hollow

how Love
in the Time of Cholera
plays out

Palm Sunday
the debt collectors
wring their hands

black as death
crow's song of itself
goes viral

at seventy
my breath becomes

within my bubble
sealing the isolation
sound of water

first born cull
behind blood-stained doors
we eat lamb

not to be sneezed at
a dead end
made out of mist

viral news—
it's the little things
that matter