It's true, these last few years I've lived.
Watching myself in the act of loss.
The art of losing, Elizabeth Bishop called it.
But for me no art, only badly done exercises.
Acts of a heart forced to question its presumptions
in this world.
Its mere excitements.
Acts of a body forced to measure all instincts against pain.
Acts of parting, trying to let go without giving up.
Yes, Elizabeth.
A city here, a village there.
A sister, comrade, cat, and more.
No art to this but anger.