Here, Somehow

Existence is impossible.
What to make of that?
Absence is the rule.
The thing you used to bat

around when you were young
you used to call a ball
turns out to be illusory:
no ball exists at all.

The skin you touch, the kiss
you render to a lover
all amount to something
like the shadow of a cover

of the notion of a puff:
neither evidence of breath
(for nothing ever is or was)
nor harbinger of death:

no palpability of any kind.
Yet – less exploded star
than a hypothesis –

here, somehow, you are.

.