62 The Meadow Pandemic Aubade with Dying Scene Murray Silverstein Zooming last night with friends, Julie mentioned a show, and, “We saw it,” you said. “Wasn’t that dying scene great,” she said, “when the guy comes to from his stroke, and tries to kiss everyone on the mouth?” “Hold me,” you said, when we’d clicked out, “I did not expect to live in such an unusual time.” Here is what, this morning, I know: Good orgasms begin in the toes, slowly advancing north, ever and shamelessly north. Praise to the toes, I say, through which the big thing enters. The death count, our country broken—all that must wait. There’s a waxwing at the window, a rising almost-summer sun—let’s carve it, love, in ignorance, like initials on a tree: It’s dawn, and we’re responsible, but not for everything.
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