xxxxxiv.

The word, extruded--
        from between our fingers
is not the signal,
nor the sign,
          of the coming,

of better than this:
in the dingy, and dark,
of the room--someone

lost, to the passing,
told me, about how there
was a singer, who

spent his whole life alone,
across the ocean,
near, but not touching, I

will grind my teeth, and fail
again, and over, if--
it can be found, in failure.