When I walk, off the virus,
into the casuarina solitude
to twig the crevice between
bondage and freedom,

it’s the gossamer’s pride
that chuckles dangling in
the green clusters that flick
impulses of the Light, pricking

nimbly on the glassy eye of
my letters, it spins the
accurate filaments of an
artifice hazing mine. It’s

scot-free from the fear of
the time-cuffed days unlike
our stewed confinement at
the mercy of odd intervals.

Lost in this web of enviable
freedom, I try to read between
the silver lines of the epic strains
that only humble the fleeting
adjectives of my quivering meanings.