April 1915. Seven colours
arch across the sky. Seven brushes
(hidden behind my back)
drip from a 36 year inscription.
I'm straight-faced as a mermaid on a merry-go-round
back from other cities, their strange geographies and
   crazy citizens.
There's no church, cinema, editors office, tavern en route
I haven't visited; no bed I haven't slept in
(a stale carnival of emotions, misplaced
with my umbrella in the cafés of Europe;
remembered briefly as I left, handkerchief flapping,
on sleeping-cars heading north,
heading south).

Time and place are a duet, like dog and moon.
Sirens wail in a blurry dawn; half-forgotten dreams
...