So many so small go on day and night under your feet you barely notice. A big bang sounds like the neighbors upstairs knocking over their refrigerator, and you ask, Why knock over your refrigerator? while friends turn pale and head for the doorjambs. No, no, it’s just some guy accidentally upending his refrigerator, you insist. Maybe he’s drunk. You’re so good at making up explanations, you miss the moments things shift for real, red tulips beginning to wilt in their vase, their hot lipstick mouths puckering like dowagers, or the way a marriage curdles; milk left out too long. You’re standing on sand, (you’re always standing on sand,) but it’s not the same sand as a wave ago, everything has swept in and out, regardless of whether you believe in death who says, Alright, fine, don’t believe in me, or who doesn’t say anything at all, just goes about his death business, loosening lover’s arms from their embraces, liberating teeth from their gums. The yellow and brown crumpled gloves of last year’s fig leaves lie abandoned in front of your house, summer mittens someone has to sweep up and touch, someone has to notice and mourn, while the garbage trucks roll on, implacable.