No, all loss is about more loss,
a mistakable ache, of space
for peace—the always-
now-gone of absence,
blank unknown before us:
what’s yet to finish,
what’s also over, always.

We spoke of this,
of moments slipping,
as we walked between the woods
and the sea, each in solitude,
and found a wealth of sand dollars, 
the dull gray of old bones,
circles scrimshawed with six-
petaled blossoms—
so many, we fell silent;
so many, we each chose only 
one—we stood in mystery,
in a mass of death. As 
I turned a spined 
body over in my hands, 
the unrelenting sea still came;
waves came and brought still more.