I awake no rush
clothes face teeth hair
downstairs start the fire
then crackers a smear of tahini
slivered tofu with dead herbs
apple slices music.

Over black coffee check
the latest numbers figure out
new mortality rates
mind gasping
each time it tries to touch
this ungraspable cataclysm.

Bring in logs
not enough left to last
this damned spring cold
sweep the wood chips
survey the problems
the mind spasms the heart rends.

Evening now and the mood sinks
daytime it heaved and plunged
I wrote and posted five short poems
slowly resuming work
the Black Spots
acquiring new significance.

A month ago we had glorious hope
take on the bastards change the world
then an eyeblink
an airless free-fall
time compression
house arrest.

Now we wash hands
wash again again again
out Black Spot
of judgement
while having a good chat
with god.


– Diane Sophrin
  Vermont, 3.18.20




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“Descent – II”







Thrust out of bed
I descend
lost trembling
at the cold white table again
bundled in thick green sweater
gold scarf and black beret
scalding tea
slides down my grateful gullet.

Staying put it seems
again the door clangs shut
this black guillotine
cutting off air
severing words
and laughter
in a different tongue.


– Diane Sophrin
  Vermont, 3.11.20




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“Chronicle of Logs”






Bringing in the wood
while our führer dances
on the head of a

White snow sifting
sugarcoats the frozen ground
but no one likes
the taste of truth.

On New Year’s Day I wrote
a poem on war
two days later
it began.

Next I rearrange the stack
left on the porch
you like my chronicle of logs
the mention of fire comforts.

The bend the heft the hoist
breath visible in the air
peel off gloves while the
heat hugs and fire comforts.


– Diane Sophrin
  Vermont (1.7.20)




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