The large oak tree

I can no longer see anything — like blindness
although I can feel everything that ever was
but shadows and silhouettes in the dark
offer comfort with their forms:

The folding table in the yard is not you,
for instance, and the folding chair is not me
sitting close on a night like tonight
with only my cat at home,
and thank god for her she is neither of us

This is the part of a day when
the large oak tree near my patio, with its jagged bark,
moves steadily through my mid-section
passing slowly like the moon’s pace across the sky
what am I supposed to do, lay in my bed and die?
I muse that my heart is stuck in a small room by itself

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