What if givenness isn’t enough—
and the wind’s slithering along my arm
is really a subtle summery alarm
trying to tell me something else,
and much rougher? 
                                 That worth, for instance,
depends on a violence of difference
                                                  and therefore
inevitably lies at a certain distance 
from the stuff of life and us?
That even givenness has to be taken
hold of,