Your going away like some fantasy
the Southern Avenue sky far away and
like your wild, young and swinging
your calf muscles like egg shells
that run away to that tram
car and the window occupied
by all of Calcutta's busy urban morning . . .
I light up a desultory cigarette
walk all those
uncertain miles back home
to nothingness . . .
and yet it is morning
and yet Calcutta
is among the wild, wild
rains once again.