Without telling anyone, I go out
to the car to be alone. The moon
comes up behind the hills,
shielded from its normal splendor
by daylight. Floating as a survivor,
come into being from decaying
rocks, the roots of a tooth.
I think selfishly about my death,
like a volunteer for martyrdom.
Through the windshield I look
at lawns and missed dandelions
blooming in the borders of a yard:
the newborn of spring.
Helpless, I lean my seat back,
roll down the windows to smell
the faint scent of jasmine from
a neighbor’s fence. I forget
my life briefly, neatly undertaken
by the vehicle, which I don’t
want to leave. I will fall asleep
with my cheek upon the upholstery,
thoughts of our lives like ants,
full of dreadful purpose.
Snow white blooms
drift out of the neighborhood
trees, fall into the wind.
The blue around the house
becomes dark, the interior lights
like meaning of its own inner life,
flickering on. When I go back
inside I am ready to be missed.
One of them looks wordlessly
up from what they are doing,
then looks back down. I look
around for the others, but they
are all missing: lost amid
the enormity of their own
vast and alternate rooms.