I feel a veil sickening
Covering me tickle-ing,
Thousands of spiderlings
Striding the drafts of crouping .

The sick and the well :
The grouping .
Not moving ; but removed .

So tired .
Fatigue pats you lovingly,
Murmuring, “ There, there . ”
— Shhh .

No impetus at all, from all
That inpired prior
The virus .

*[ WSB ]_.