I practice losing
(that fine art) like
I am perfecting a skill

these small disasters
only come to be realized
as such after the fact.

once the bridge is burnt
and the ashes scattered
on the wind, I stand

like a shadow
solemn on the shore
and gaze at the waves

that take and take away
then give back only frag-
ments, broken bottles,

debris.  the remains of
a love, a friendship,
washed up at my feet.

I gather sea glass,
softened shards
of a past that is lost,

a shell broken in two.
the tide comes in and
my heart swells with regret

I think of you.