Every night he returns
to the colored kaleidoscope,
to the uncut wild grass of gestured days
where poets and painters mingled with fire,
where urgency was in bed with counter clocks,
lighting the city with more centuries.

Old capitals of Europe beckon,
old streets where blood
still has but one color,
where circular ground floor entrances
inhales brass elevators vertically,
where vast rooms embrace old people,
dressed in psychedelic rags and a knowledge
of fountains and a cartoon belonging:

There is no ceremonial Simon,
no voice that echoes afterlife.

Ancient poets and painters whispers
in the beds of the naked,
uncloaked wisdom of the one eye,
absorbed by the cities of wanting more,
flayed by uncut underground trains,
runs through the veins
of a place we call home.