Pandemic Rift or Drift

Dry the line that separates out from in
Wither and die, or dye, whither you may be suited
New color or colour or whatever you reckon
When nothing else matters; Sufi ends.

You are left alone
Swirling counterclockwise between walls counted backwards
Four minus three plus seven
Is always the cube you plop
Into your tea;
t-minus and counting
days months a year or two
a square or two, flat and unforgiving.

Piazza—you called out before—kids on bikes
Circling il Fontana di Maria in Trastevere
Or addicts drifting between warm cafés from Bar San Calisto
Ochre and fish burns, across from where you were,
Squared and peeled, a lemon clunking Amalfi way
Romantic and expecting;
pregnant pause
Middle age; old and dying.

Figure that line, from eye within
I wanted it more, whichever one flattered most
Same thread, same pattern or whatever she said
When everything matters; Sufi ends.

Dorian LaGuardia
2020

Dorian LaGuardia
September 2020.