I hate to be apocalyptic, my friend said in The New York Times

             For Megan

Most states have set up a temporary morgue,

Which means we expect the dying to end, not the dying to rise,

A further force of life

As proficient at hunting our hopes as any big cat

Optimized for dispatch. Thickly furred, impersonal, relishing

The pattern of the sun

Through windows, what we call windows in the field hospital

Hastily erected, a life-hack, hacked out of us, no quarry disturbed.

Your thoughts don’t have words every day

For falling apart and exponents. Stats are hard, I get it.

Begging is simpler and listening is what every baby is made for;

Why else should we know our mother’s heart, how it beats, beats

And shouts for joy to Nobody?