to where the telephone is never answered
letters are not delivered
and there is no net connection.
He will not need his perfect shirts,
his shabby old coat,
or his collection of railway postcards.
He has gone beyond passports and money.
He has soared off the edges of evening,
where there are no stations,
and no one can follow,
down through the shadowed valley.
And our questions will find no answers
and our conversation will have no ending.
