Existence

Last night my neighbor blew on a spoon, and disappeared.

The night is like that sometimes.

The houses show up in the darkness on the hills

and appear to be floating

for no reason at all.

The sky blackens and spreads out like ink would.

Years pass in the same cyclical light and order

of happening. I stand below a tree directly below the moon

holding nothing in my mind

but what I tell myself

are stupid things.

If the wind says anything, it says, north, south, northeast-by-northwest

and is quiet when it speaks through the groves

of what might be eucalyptus.

I remember a potted plant, and a layer of light

across a table I set. I see

a life overflowing with grass

and money I spent. Existence

is what populates these houses populating the hills.

Little clicks and sounds. That’s all living means.