From a Diary of the Plague Year (19)

We're double-bound to home

today. There is the viral reason,

and now smoke

from the Great Western American

Fire of 2020 creams air.

Airborne ash makes

the sun look like the moon.

Birds do their best to eat

out there, but there are

no bugs in that air.

I'm calm. I stare.

I'd like to go into exile.

But where? Nobody

wants to see Americans now,

not even Americans. 

hans ostrom 2020

From a Diary of the Plague Year (18)

 (housebound)

the cat looks out a window I

look at the cat, which looks

at its paw and then at the woman

who looks at the cat and then

looks at me, who is looking out

a window and then looking at

the woman, who says "why

are you looking at me that

way?" and I say "what way?"

and she shakes her head 

and looks at the cat and

the cat looks out a window

hans ostrom 2020

From a Diary of the Plague Year (17)

I'm not supposed to leave the house.

So while you're out,

could you pick up one

of the 49 copies of the Gutenberg Bible?

(It can be a partial copy.)

Thanks. Also, I need a feather

from the small golden-crowned

manakin from the Amazon rain forest.

(It's a hybrid bird.) If you have

time, you might bring  back

the original arrangement 

for Duke Ellington's "Warm Valley."

And some bread and apples.

I'll be here all day! So

take your time. 

hans ostrom 2020

From a Diary of the Plague Year (16)

And so it came to pass

That in the midst of plague,

The plague of white supremacy

Again rose to kill. A tide

Of no: no-more swelled

And swamped the shore.

We hope this won’t turn out

As it has before, waters

Retreating, the chalk beach

Bright white again.

Hans Ostrom

June 2020