Last poem in that book is called The Flight.
"At times in the day, I thought of a fire to watch.
Not that my hands were cold but to have that doorway
to see through into the first thing.
Even our names are made of fire and we feed on night.
Walking I thought of a fire.
Turning around I caught sight of it in an opening in the wall,
in another house, and another before, and after.
In house after house it was mine to see.
The same fire, the perpetual burn."