The possibility of loss
is so enormous
that every hour we brood
on loss until we finally,
in our melancholy, refuse
to think on the enormity of all we come to lose.
Stretched by loss, we stretch out our fear
(fear of loss grows more focused every year)
until the idea of loss becomes loss enough.
One loss—the loss of you—is certainly tough.
It causes the loss of everything:
the winter, the dainty spring.
The younger seem to be getting younger—
(the one who left you—damn—now looks better),
hang onto that striped sweater!
don’t let that worn, leather book
out of your sight.
The infinite losses during the day
can return to you at night.
They will be yours, in your dreams.
the ending of this poem only seems
to be the end. This poem ends in that other book.
The one you saved, Rosalinda.
Go take a look.
Read! (Will you refuse?)
And lose your ability to lose.
The trumpets, trembling, faintly blowing!
Come with us! Aren’t you going?
You don’t love anything! How
can you? Everything is going.
These ancient instruments in the mist
play the melody you can’t resist.
I can’t see what you see in your dreams.
The loss of every dream, it seems.