Ars Pandemica

A suffering nude, Amedeo Modigliani

No one gave me my first name
I willed it into existence with my powerful voice
But now my faith is weak and all my machines are broken
I want the poems to come inside
At noon when the sun is hot, and it shines on every wall of the house
Or midnight when I look out of the dark window to see my own reflection and lights I don’t recognize
It seems that nothing ever happens
I pull, I move, I change my mind
And the words pass outside
In a train with a long low whistle