I

A child will draw hands somewhere between

spider and sun, a marriage of circle and line,

each a Euclid abstracting to bare bones.

To each strip of blue its quarter-sun,

each strip of green its house, a chimney weaving

spirals of smoke. DNA. Double-helix.

There’s nothing here that won’t be fixed

by a little erasure, a little smudge or smear.

II

The smudge of lipstick inside this facemask

marks it as yours; I wear your kiss

as an open secret in the supermarket queue.

Social distance; prophylaxis;

the crown’s radials looking to hook up

with a bronchial cell, it too seeking

a home, a jumping-off point from where

its electron-microscope selfie can go viral

III

just as I strive to have my emissaries

sow divisions in your queendom.

While we might ascribe the last to shoddy materials,

I like to conceive her bursting through

as pure will. The sperm that goes the distance

severs its own tail, as Apollo jettisons its fuel cells

after the atmosphere has been breached

and Earth shrinks to the size of a mushroom spore.

IV

A mushroom spore will negotiate the rigours of space

with aplomb, ensconce itself in a cloud that wanders

from galaxy to galaxy until it falls

on fertile ground. Figs and thorns. Mustard seed.

Christ the great room-reader

drawing quiddity from the quotidian,

even as the temple-keepers dead-bolt

the sanctum sanctorum against all possible incursions.

V

Hard to guard, though, against the inside job –

just ask Samson or, better yet, Delilah;

hard to guard against a bee swarm’s

wiki-up in a lion’s ribcage,

so recently home to its vitals.

Sea-change. Full fathom five.

All the walls in the world vanity

against the will to live.