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.