You Can’t Expect Me Not To Write This Poem After What You Tweeted

And once more, I am being told what I need to write about.

How my love poems in the time of Corona make you sick,

if only eyes could stray – imagine.

We know the world is dying but so are we.

Humans are chaotic – always have been, always will be

reading stars like news,

putting our ears to the ground,

waiting for the next avalanche to dig ourselves out from.

 

But while we wait,

 

I’ll put death on hold for you if you want me to.

If you want me too, I’ll write poems for you.

I’ll write poems for you while our home crumbles and

while our home crumbles, I hope you make it to another day.

I hope you make it to another day to read my poems about the same fucking moon and

the same fucking moon will always make you look beautiful.

You look beautiful and you should know it. I should tell you.

I should tell you because the world is dying, darling.

The world is dying,         darling

and   people     are still     telling   me

what         I       need       to       write         about.