#26

The city is closing itself down, flattening itself across, emptying like a box or a bag or a home. Shops shut and stay shut. Winds die to wheezes. Exeunt. And after. Dust-raw, rubbed. Oh, the plaques of buildings! Bare and brown, the streets that lead nowhere. The possibile itself in exile.

So what if it is spring? Time's hands, unlined - as if their time were far off - secure the windows, board the doors, and fill the walks with refuse. No forward address. Salute. Words are set in bundles on the curb. I will become, out of the boredom of such solitude, a vandal. And the trees will blossom, the seasons cycle aimlessly.

You are leaving for New York. History is ending.