All night it snows, I stare at the sky without glasses and see hazy cream colored light. The radiator trips over itself to stay ahead of the freezing temperatures, steam clicking and hissing by the side of the bed as I drift out in and out of consciousness. For a brief second after the alarm rings, I remain in dreams and the notion that all is well. When I wake, I remember.
We are in a blizzard.
In a pandemic.
We are locked into our bubbles in a world on fire.
But babies are still made, lovers are still finding the secrets on each other's skin, the poets still wax from their messy nooks about the state of things and none of us are rendered immune, not yet.
And if you can't be one of the first two, at least make sure you are the third.
Sometimes,
even the poets make it out alive.
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