I cut from myself the parts I think they won’t take.
They fall, skin from bone,
I stand, not whole,
but not gone.

Women open their arms and pour their days out.
Men give a cup—
not full, not empty—just enough.
Which am I?
Do I hold or am I held?

Pick one.

There is Schoenberg—Saturday.
The strings do what they can.

They hold nothing.
And me—
less than that.

—Augustus