I’ve lost my appetite
for having an appetite.

If pieces of your life die
and you die a little with each death

how much do you have to lose
before you are no more?

I’m thinking not many, 
not for me at least.  I’m thinking

all the little losses were just 
needles reminding me of the first cut

and I’ve lost the desire for desire
as a result.  I’ve got no sense

that being alive
requires more of me

than existing does.
What does it matter

if I covet better
experiences, more justice,

less anguish
for myself and others

in an anguished world? Those
are on the other side

of a universe I can’t imagine,
a system in the sky I cannot

grasp. I only pretend to
because someone out there

hasn’t died as much as I have,
not yet.  They haven’t reached

my limit. They haven’t 
had their eyes go dark

and their longing
fossilize.