I have slept in this bed
for eleven years.
Turning my head slightly
to the left, through the window,
I would have said—there is nothing there.
There is a whole world out there.
A tree, whose name I never bothered to learn,
with leaves I never tried to understand.
Do they fall in the fall?
They are here now, waving in the breeze,
kissing the sunlight,
never imposing—
We are here
if you need us to rest your eyes.
Birds visit and whisper to them.
They hide among them,
but my eyes are slowly descaling,
learning to spot the birds.
Three pointy cypress trees further back,
a redwood next to them, keeping them in check.
Airplanes leave light brushstrokes
across the milky blue morning sky.
First appeared in Book of Matches, May 2025