I was brother to all walls in the world
and my wife     a window with dusk in its panes
was tearing onions
with tears upon tears

Full stop.
Children! You get full marks for writing life in truth and lies . . .

At a juncture where neither the face of green becomes
      pedestrian
nor the traffic warden has any act of kindness for 
      resident drivers
nor that magic lantern at the face of green and
      amber . . .
to the woman who alone spoiled my married identity
Nevertheless what relevance
      to the one indoors who went loose on the streets?
                   Stop!

Try to write without lies, my son! But be careful not to make mistakes: 
the rubber won’t always stop anywhere you want. 

The one who writes a poem
always rubs out other poems
Poets!      Stop writing hands up