The Meditation

On a scrap of paper in the archive is written
I have forgotten my umbrella. Turns out

in a pandemic everyone, not just the philosopher,

is without.

The Marginalization

We scramble in the drought of information
 held back by inside traders. Drop by drop. Face
 covering? No, yes. Social distancing? Six feet
 under for underlying conditions. Black.
 Just us and the blues kneeling on a neck
 with the full weight of a man in blue.
 Eight minutes and forty-six seconds.
 In extremis, I can’t breathe gives way
 to asphyxiation, to giving up this world,
 and then mama, called to, a call
 to protest, fire, glass,

The Memorial

say their names, say their names,

The Meltdown

white silence equals violence,
 the violence of again, a militarized police
 force teargassing, bullets ricochet, and civil
 unrest taking it, burning it down.

The March

Whatever
 contracts keep us social compel us now
 to disorder the disorder.

The Mobilization

Peace. We’re out
 to repair the future. There’s an umbrella
 by the door, not for yesterday but for the weather
 that’s here. I say weather but I mean
 a form of governing that deals out death
 and names it living. I say weather but I mean
 a November that won’t be held off. This time
 nothing, no one forgotten. We are here for the storm
that’s storming because what’s taken matters.