They say I sodomize my days and works of hands but they cannot even wait and watch my sunsets across your ample breasts dark purple and acrid as the years have gone by . . . They don’t even have a word to say about my return from abroad sweating stammering and afraid and the stormy afternoon when we made one another and you were so violently sick and bloody that I’d to even hand out your white napkin that turned red as the sun turned red in Calcutta my beloved and my desolation . . .. they don’t know anything and yet they dare say I sodomize my days and works of hands applying cream across your arm pits applying litany to my sorrows applying vodka to one of my final visits to Bengal’s poetry churches . . . tell me my sonny shall I dare sing hey nonny nonny hey and returneth as I must from dust to smirking dust?