When the Pandemic arrived
I went inside but before I could lock my door
a cloud rolled in behind me. (These are disorienting
times.) As the days passed the cloud grew wistful
which led to some dissemblage. The cloud
would no longer eat my baked beans and Wasa
crisp bread. Around this time my roof began to thin
until the light shone through and I could watch the
overflying Canada geese head for the estuary
each evening. The cloud pressed itself
against my now transparent ceiling
when the geese flew by. This would release a fine
mist into my sitting room. The estuary was unaffected
by the Pandemic, only by moon and tides. We stayed
this way for quite some while—the cloud, the geese, my
moist sitting room, the forestalled disease. Perhaps
I even realized that the ceiling was my skull,
the sitting room my dreams, the geese
an exponential curve, the cloud my own exhale.
But then I went to the basement to bring up
the peanut butter.


Photo © Kim Goldberg