xxxxxviii.

--tonight, the wind blows
and it rests in the hollows, and it sneaks
behind the buildings--and,
tonight--

tears all that was--
before, and all that would have
been--across my bones,
their hollows whistle--tonight,

I loose my hold, and I let it
carry--there are worse things
than not to have been--carry,
all the things I have held
tightly--

take them from me, where--
I don't mind, take them to
nowhere in particular, or

lose them in the gutters,
and the planters and beneath
the tracks--

and they go,
and they flee, and they
scatter--

and they go, I am
glad