A St. Patrick's day storm by evening
turns a scrub-yard into grounds
of fluid change: a thaw that's nothing
less or more than living-death.

I am its waters, much as
I'm the 'earth' I named,
to place it apart, as if this planet
could be some place beyond my being.

But why not stop the con
call the world by my own
surname & beware
what becomes me once I'm gone?

One day, a body, another,
ash, atomized
into an atmosphere too fine
to have kept me in the first place.

Then is now, in that now is
the moment's unbecoming.

Loss is what's
most worth living,
for living, essentially,

Holding-on results in a series
of incredible losses: the blues
which a diamond surrenders
& this winter below my window
which thrives so visibly
at the start of its own dissolving.