The world is white.
Not in purity but in fog;
not in ethnicity but in shroud.
I cannot see farther than ninety metres.
What was, yesterday, a confused swirl
crystalline fliers swarming the city stage,
is today an airborne wall, a shoveled pile,
barricade to progress, invitation to stall.
I must write or I will suffocate.
Tasks, duties, competing priorities
swarm and swirl my mental stage
I cannot see farther than ninety minutes.
Do the next thing, Elisabeth says,
but a fragmented list, of competing tasks
in opposing directions requiring a decision
at every turn, makes even the next thing unclear.
So I write words, lists, appeals and apologies.
The justifications and explanations are articulate
and persuasive in my head, pillowed soft
in white goose down.
where I promptly fall back to sleep.