I walk into city streets

Which others do not see.

I play beneath Autumn leaves

smell the dust of the leaf death,

The mulch of a forest floor—

Yet few others follow me here.

 

I run with the circus parade,

Laugh with the clowns

And sing with the kalliope,

Though others near hear only

The whispers of their own breath.

 

I walk into the garret

Of desolation and despair,

Ride as with the wind

Through nights of rage.

I am slivered on the spear,

Severed upon a sword,

Gutted by all the weapons of war.

 

All this and more do I find

With Kandinsky and Klee,

Vincent and Pablo P.,

Chagall and Bracque,

Miro, Dali (and more)

 

Upon a quiet afternoon

At the Guggenheim.

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