Losing (1981)

In losing there is the coming of night.
Waves recede, revealing
The heart’s flapping fish.
In losing slow jazz plays on and on,
Spinning around a spike on a record.
The cut is clean and deep.
In losing the peg is yanked out,
And the wound gets raw,
Washed with a spillage of sewage and brine.

Eventually, riderless horses appear
With wild manes coursing in the wind,
Their cold eyes asking,
Shall we take you home?

You must decide how much there is
In losing.