we are three hundred looking at our screens
more than three hundred if we have family in the house
Evie looks, Major looks — we look at a large face
at a gallery of faces, at bits of rooms behind faces
Major’s books, Evie’s yellow wall
brief howling of a needy cat
no texture, no smell, worrisome pixillations & audio stutters
the poets read polished published poems
then new poems — loose, conversational, raw
what have you written since this moment began?
I know these people, they haven’t forgotten me, we are apart
we want to see each other again
it is my annual day of sobbing
I do not regret my little bout with life
Evie says I’ve only written three poems, it’s hard to focus
Major says the pressure is building
afterward, no one says that, will there be an afterward?
after silence, art will burst like a tidal wave
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