We are reminded, after grabbing a public doorknob,
Just how sticky morality is—
It depends on the health and wellbeing
Of immune systems at large.
While one reaches for their surgical mask
The air becomes free-floating moral virions—
Call it fate, call it theosophy
Call it evil, call it God,
It is not human nor holy
But somewhere in between, whatever it is.
Neither sneeze nor cough is deliberate
On the conscientious level, but on the laryngeal,
The opportunism of the local *****—
Mere consequence is that itching throat,
Are those foggy eyes, a cleverness
Of many unliving things.