The Empty Apartment

Sometimes I think that people are the fingers

of God, like the blind ocean touching land,

and life’s a Braille that I won’t understand

if I’m not touching you and we’re not singers

kissing a song out of our mouths in bed.

Tonight I fumble keys in darkness by

my door and try to feel my way inside

to cook alone and watch TV; instead

I walk down California to the seething

blackness out there beyond the glowing beach

and stand a long time listening to each

heave, the ocean like the planet breathing.

It’s done with raging windily and wild.

Tonight it whispers, Shush, it whispers, Child.