takes the shape
of its container, expanding
to fill these abandoned stadiums,
empty streets, quiet schools;
crowding mailboxes
and warehouses with shipments
of toilet paper, disinfectant,
and hand sanitizing cream;
shrinking
to the circumference
of a backyard, an apartment, a
hospital room;
fitting just into the space of
six feet,
or the miles
between the lips and cheek
of a kiss, held
against a glowing screen; lifted
up, filling clouds, carried across
the boundaries
of nations, states, and
political regimes;
penetrating deep
into the earth,
finding roots,
kindling seeds;
becoming the pain that
bulbs feel,
when their hearts
split open
to let the flowers
bloom.
