April Fools

April first two thousand twenty

clock hands barely moving; grasping at falling feathers

a hair per day one more burned wick 

one more pen running out ink.

Carpet squares—one to the next—have become

well acquainted with the wordless

unwashed cheek of my whitening

face. Vitamin D usually helps but

going outside seems useless.

Desk slats of video classes

glasses piling up on the used-to-

be creative table on the are-my-eyes-getting-better-or-worse

bridge of my nose and I know nothing about this is coated

in the same varnish of yester-

year, yester-

day. It does not matter—that sickly sweet 

nothing—until I think about it.

If I don’t think about it then maybe all of the walls will

Disappear — reappear closer this time 

interesting how the mind plays tricks on the time

tick tick. tick. t i c k.     t i      k c—

If I follow the thread around the earth will I fall off

the edge or keep looping around, staring

up at a pupil-black sky spilled with 

stars so close I could run my hand through them.

April first two thousand twenty. If nothing really changes,

but the world shifts on its axis

does everything actually stay the same.