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It's true, these last
few years I've lived.

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Watching myself in
the act of loss.

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The art of losing,
Elizabeth Bishop called it.

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But for me no art, only
badly done exercises.

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Acts of a heart forced to
question its presumptions

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in this world.

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Its mere excitements.

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Acts of a body forced to measure
all instincts against pain.

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Acts of parting, trying to
let go without giving up.

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Yes, Elizabeth.

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A city here, a village there.

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A sister, comrade,
cat, and more.

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No art to this but anger.

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