“April 8, 2020,” by Martin Levine

Outside the dead

silence strains at the ribs

and membranes of the locked

down houses. The dark empty

streets crawl past apartments

shuttered windows and

front doors masked

against the possibility of shadows

and ghosts. Within the walls

we search for little laughters,

revisit what we have come to

love, open other windows

remember the shape of your mouth

as the night fades, and we are still

able to breathe.