Intricate thicket of breezing clouds, depths of darkness depending from their bellies, below which invisible curtains of pollen wrench from me one sneeze after another. The pastoral of our political degradation goes on, even as the antibodies in the body politic leave their mark on the whose streets our streets. Under the pavement, the beach; under the beach, the living possibility of change. But will the new boss be the same as the old boss? And what of the virus which our society seems hellbent on forgetting? It all goes down the memory hole—but the sky, denser each day, remembers.