If I stopped believing in you,
would the lights shine more brightly,
the elder trees turn more feathery,
everything thingier in the sun?
Would you seize my freedom out of reach?
Either way, there’s no escape—
I’m the lack
breathing nothing all the way down.
This fig from a neighbor’s tree
has less taste for me
than my fear’s taste, the knotted nothing
clutched in my gut remaining
my reassurance and friend,
and you remain my always there,
quietest of quiets, most other and out of reach.