pdf download - Westerly Magazine

It has no end, no sentence and full-stopwithout you - but so many things can die,are dead in you, so many lifetimesloved and shut away, or walking offalong some different beach on the sharp fringeof winter, where the tide goes on unpackingits dead picnic for someone else; someonewho's also you, who's also here:Tear here.Down below the level of the even bayyou wonder what might happen without words to need,keeping you in place; where here becomes hereafterin a breath, and the land of waterholds you in its cold mind for an instant,then forgets, and you're uplifted with the sand,unsaid along with other silent endings,like the items of the tide around you.And here at last the little shells you feelbeneath your feet that are the sea's own bonesbecome the endless dead you tread upon, you are.WESTERLY, No.2, JUNE, 1989 77