FIXING THE POEM: So I tweaked the poem in an e-mail to a friend. Maybe this is better...

SO IT GOES
When I think
we are all going to die
and so who cares
if we feel a little sick
from stress along the way --
that's when I realize
stress is nothing
in the face of mortality --
and then I remember
we feel sick mostly
because of mortality.

So what kills us
can save us?
Why does it have to hurt
so much to be saved?