xxxxxvi.

The exile, waiting:

            along the brick walls, I

watch the dark,

            running,

down to the street, to run

down to the river.

Someday, I will lose

my name,

            and the name that

was given me—

--but I will not, forget.

in the dark, and the drums click

deep in the beat, but

someday: I remember the streets

dark with water, deep

with earth, in their constellations

minerals, between them—

the window breaks the carpet

into sections,

I will not forget, though, I go

into sections,