If you moved in we’d have: two working televisions, two beds, a kitchen table, patio furniture, mini-fridge (combo end table), sofa, tupperware, Greenling Organic Delivery Service (pending address change), the Desiderata (on dry erase board), wall stuff – one Japanese film poster dressed like Audrey Hepburn, one over-expectant frame around floor mirror, your grandmother’s painting, more and more of the color red (in dim light, like the inside of a mouth) – backyard tent, Brita filter, pink neon lights (again we are inside some thing, a stomach, a placental ship), your cutlery, knife block, the water in our mouths (for chopping onions, pressing lips), the smell, the smudges, green-onion bulbs reshooting their lives in plastic restaurant cups on the counter, not a tree (the trees are already here), but a way of climbing trees, a way of knowing they’re alive. Once you asked me, What kind of creature would play this tree as an instrument? I’ve thought of so, so many. They can fill our yard as the pit of an alien orchestra. The small ones will strum our vertical supports