The dearest freshness deep down things
Ruth Moss
 
 
And for all this, the mire in which we find
ourselves; those urchin virions, background
to every newscast with their scarlet spines,
protein spikes; staccato marches against
the unjust; and apathy, that shrug
emoji, that lets the smirk-faced kith
of Pulcinella win, again, again;
the deaths, lungs, those latticed twigs, 
drowned by their own sap, organs 
stuttering like ratty engines that give out; 
all the cafés, galleries, libraries 
could remain barricaded, but still,
our shadows will shrink, snowdrops die back,
and the sun’s warmth, a scarf, will wreath my neck.