Sitting quietly, doing nothing, spring comes and the grass grows by itself.
I would like to make nothing
a verb. I nothing. You nothing.
We nothing. That second person
plural is my favorite conjugation.
Imagine. Both of us nothinging together.
Where? I don’t care. The garden.
The alley. The canyon. The floor.
More nothing. Oh, it’s nothing.
Nothing is sacred, anymore.
And there, on the altar of air
our minds and bodies rest. They unfold
in the hollow, the gaps. Though
when nothing happens, that’s
all I want to talk about. I thrill
at nothing. I love nothing.
Nothing’s perfect. Nothing’s easy.
The grass continues to grow.
Nothing to do. Nothing to say.
Let’s nothing together all day.