Fair Sky at Morning

Why in the full
world are we

or, rather,
am I the only

thing that goes
away and, so

far, returns?
Everything is

replete, ripe,
churning, foaming

without emptying
or diminishing

for me, this ghost
that goes to nothing

every evening,
every coma,

every surgery,
and, yes, will

also at death (which
is just the same

but with, usually,
a worse prequel).

Everything else is
in sum conserved,

so to be losable, I am,
must be, nothing.