A lapsed day, an abstract. Somewhere a homicidal clown is telling people to let light into the body to kill the virus: Gnostic Trump, Demiurge Trump. Can’t seem to move, if movement means changing places, locales, perspectives. The bed’s weather is steady like the climate in a cavern. Shades of gray, cotton, and cream. Our hallways are lined with unhung pictures like patient pets. The toilet runs late into the night; I get up and lift the lid, stare at the mechanism, the mechanism stares back. Flush. People are dying. The heavy hemlocks, are they crying? That isn’t the line.