Late in Lockdown: 2

Shaking out the wrinkles – from our clothes, but not our skin –
needing to reduce, somehow,
the mass of people we don’t know;
If we were to recognise and even greet vague fluttering freedom,
pallid from confinement, weakened by disuse,
what would we see? 

Having swallowed whole the scattered lies of charlatans –
puffed full of empty, hollow, self-congratulation –
we trailed behind;  we’ve worn away our differences
until we must conform, until we are the same:
too choked by passive dust to thrive alone
and too inflamed to flourish through our touch…

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