Life Like a Fan

I see it

like I see trees waving
darkly on the hills,

the funeral man
clapping
in the rain,

and the small pair of shoes
unworn
on the closet floor

talking to each other;

all is irregular,
all is irrelevant and is faint.

Vibrations and echoes are
dead because there are no walls.

It is not a tomb. It is not sad or even cynical—
That’s just it. It’s just that. It is
just that.