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A virus wants to replicate. It hates to be lonesome. A virus wants to replicate its genome, refold, virally reiterate all a virus knows in its folds, helical, prolate— in all the viral morphologies. Not great for a nonviral body, these revelries, late- night recombinations gathering mutations while tonight’s desperate combo plays, but

hear it viral style. Genes will duplicate. A pathogen’s life, if a gene relocation machine really lives, is brief. It can’t wait or fabricate more than a minor song. One pleated sonnet; no crown. If there’s love, you can’t watch it spike. Yet it wants. In its whisper, a catch.