Your going away like some fantasy the Southern Avenue sky far away and somber like your wild, young and swinging breasts 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 and 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.