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 the heart forced to question its presumptions in this world its mere excitements acts of the 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

You breathe upon us nowthrough solid assertionsof yourself: teaspoons, goblets,seas of carpet, a forestof old plants to be wateredan old man in an adjoiningroom to be touched and fed.And all this universedares us to lay a fingeranywhere, save exactlyas you would wish it done.

...blessing and cursing are born as twins and separated at birthto meet again in mourning

Grief held back from the lips wears at the heart; the drop that refused to join the river dried up in the dust.