Dave Bonta's poem reads like gentle instructions for losing everything. It begins with small, almost forgivable losses: obscure wildflower names, a math formula, the plots of novels. Then the list grows more serious. The speaker asks whether we really need to know how to make fire, make small talk, or "change," a word that slips from spare coins into the idea of changing as a person. Even the body joins in, as the stomach forgets milk and feet forget the ground.
The tone stays calm, even tender. The speaker doesn't seem frightened by all this forgetting; "it gets easier the less / you cling." Giving up time itself leads not to emptiness but to an image of peace: a cat asleep in the sun, livestock settling into their stalls. The "moaning" of the animals adds a faint note of weariness, but the overall mood is quiet acceptance, like the end of a long day.