Taking my eyes through the strangulated mass,
I see compromises leaving evening-glow so flat,
Postulators, Knowers, their eyes sadly showing:
- Show us! - There were I, but surely sure
Now they're going; gone down in the light.

Somewhere in Moscow some thinker draws his breath,
The echo does it quack-toll on someone from before
Who sought his ages in a rest
On a child's hand growing up in Breests.

Entering Royal Yacht down in Harbour Gay,
The perfumes and the tastes that tangle in time's rooms,
And still the sod-spot: `Tell us', tells someone to be sought.

But even that sound slowly fades its say,
Whilst here between the seconds
The assembly locks away.

Singing that alphabet conserved in jar-pot flames.
The plasters cast their asters, adding figures to that say; -
And stretching in the back-room, bewitchening the black-broom
The saying I was grumbling, turns out mumbling:

`The three little nightingales got a sack for lack
Of grandeurs first-price wool-bales.'

Who was I to lock you on a feeling from my back?
Years turn down their line and the mysteries of time,
Behold their patternry dance:
the looking, the occasion and the glance.

Daily patterns, time-call, the forefront wakes on gay,
Minds of coloured patterns from here on to L.A.
And Hermes points a finger for a wake in Brighton Bay.