They tell me that now
is a good time for writing.
They say that
with all this empty time
what is better or more natural
than for a writer to write?
What they don’t know
is that I’m too busy to try.
I’m far too busy
refreshing the page
for how many have died.
As I lie awake on the sofa
for half the night
I’m actually very busy,
tangled up with the knowledge
that next might be my turn
to feel the loss
of something real.
So as I lie here,
the months stretching out
into fields of nothing,
I’m really far too busy
for writing.
