This life is a place of great death;
everyday I die a little more,
relieved to have let another piece go.
What are these things anyways?
A dishrag, a lover, my ring finger;
what are these things?
Everyday I practice losing—
a dishrag, a lover, my vision, my temper—
everyday I practice
in terror and relief—
asking others to hold the whole of me
in their 4×4 inch hearts—
driven to chase the illusion of satisfaction
again; in the end,
emptying even more into the great, dark ocean.