West. The direction of oblivion. Water
throwing itself down, banging

the strand. And remember, when you do
the thing you want to

you may hurt some one. Here
a breast, and beneath it a heart
beating, and here a hand--like mine

it wants to do only good--and now what is that
sound? The contralto

of someone sobbing.
And then there are
the poor, for whom we have orchestrated
a hell of their own. Anyone can see
their brief children, falling onto the water, flakes

of snow. Everything
is given. Everything
is taken away. Here is the body

in which we are solitary, and here
the sea, undulant
territory without a floor
or ceiling, and

here its unleashed edge, beating down the door

of sand. For these reasons
I reach across the cups, the plates, the napkins,
and take hold of your hand.