Calcutta, my expanse and my dwindling fury, as I spit on my grave and look back over my shoulders like my hunchbacked worries . . . I steal your lines and lose my job and kill our children and come sooner than your desire . . . The morning tram droops an early, hopeless return while the winter wraps around our windshield in and out the vanishing green . . . I walk back home in the company of mists and memories of battles and happen to wag my tail and my tongue when I run into my god . . .
