Dust we are, and to dust
we have already so nearly returned,
even from our dearest.
We are afraid, not having
thought before, how one’s germ
is in everything.
Sequestered from the plague
we are all looking out of our graves
at one another, distanced.
We so hunger for flesh to be unbound,
to come to the green, to one another,
unafraid to touch and be touched.
A voice calls. What graves need not hold us?
For from our shrouds our spirits, free, do get up
and meet on the green and dance anyway.
How much of our anguish is not
the assaults from without but
straining against the walls from within?
When will we follow, eager to touch what others
have touched, to meet, to join—one living body? For
we are free to love most closely, even from our graves.
This, to be free to dance, and to dance, in or
out of the flesh—not a stretching out of time—
this is the infinite to which we are raised.
You are dance, and to dance you shall return.
March 26, 2020