by A. R. Ammons

    The people of my time are passing away： my

    wife is baking for a funeral， a 60-year-old who

    died suddenly， when the phone rings， and it's

    Ruth we care so much about in intensive care：

    it was once weddings that came so thick and

    fast， and then， first babies， such a hullabaloo：

    now， it's this that and the other and somebody

    else gone or on the brink¹： well， we never

    thought we would live forever （although we did）

    and now it looks like we won't： some of us

    are losing a leg to diabetes²， some don't know

    what they went downstairs for， some know that

    a hired watchful³ person is around， some like

    to touch the cane⁴ tip into something steady，

    so nice： we have already lost so many，

    brushed the loss of ourselves ourselves： our

    address books for so long a slow scramble⁵ now

    are palimpsests， scribbles⁶ and scratches： our

    index cards for Christmases， birthdays，

    Halloweens drop clean away into sympathies：

    at the same time we are getting used to so

    many leaving， we are hanging on with a grip

    to the ones left： we are not giving up on the

    congestive heart failure or brain tumors， on

    the nice old men left in empty houses or on

    the widows who decide to travel a lot： we

    think the sun may shine someday when we'll

    drink wine together and think of what used to

    be： until we die we will remember every

    single thing， recall every word， love every

    loss： then we will， as we must， leave it to

    others to love， love that can grow brighter

    and deeper till the very end， gaining strength

    and getting more precious all the way. . . .

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