skipped beats in poetry

there was snow
deep into May
this year of
twenty-twenty
hindsightings

sickness and
death hung over
all of our heads
like white-out squalls
and blinding out-loud

then the killers stirred
sick of being pent up in
stations and squad cars
so they struck and now
everything just burns
sticky unceasing heat
blood on all our hands
blood in all our streets

there was snow
deep into May
a switch flipped
now we are ablaze

if I knew how to play
I would strum
I would sing
of this fire-and-ice life
of this year with no spring