Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2022  Vol.21  No. 1
an online journal of literature and the arts
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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.  

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