In the forest of nothing much, the forest
Of nothing is one of the shadows, goes
The rumor. It’s always there. At least, there
Are always lots of shadows. Most of them,
However, are clearly nothing much, products
Of lives’ interference with the light, the long
Lines of pines, measurable as sundials,
The sudden swoop of predatory birds,
The shadows of scampering animals, which
Are only detectable if they pass directly
Between you and the light, moon or sun.
The forest of nothing could be in any one
Of them, or all of them, or none. The rumor
Could be wrong. In the forest of nothing
Much—always busy, living and dying, always
Full—the forest of nothing moves, if it is, like
The idea that it is, that there could ever be
Nothing, an existence to what doesn’t exist.
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