West. The direction of oblivion. The sea.
Water throwing itself down, senselessly
banging. And remember,

when you do the thing you want to,
you may hurt some one. Here, for instance, is
a breast, and beneath it a heart, senselessly
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 otward 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, undulent
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,