I remember how, around the spring equinox of twenty-twenty,
people began to fade away.
Corduroy clothes dissipated into webs of silk,
so light that a sigh could unravel them.
With each whirl of the hourglass, weathered skin turned translucid,
leaving diminutive veins open to indiscreet gazes.
I could see their beating hearts, caged birds,
shivering with every toilful breath,
the rocky architecture of each lobe and cortex,
the valleys and hills of muscles over white bones.
By summer, most all had vanished, leaving behind
Nothing but beautiful, big, frightened eyes,
Glistening above immaculate surgical masks,
Watching the world tear and mend itself over and over again.