“O little root of a dream” –Paul Celan
its cellar is this thought
gold apple twilight
we are a basement in depravity
debasement in a praying city
morning is the freshest time
plum sticking fingers to lips
to thoughts too new
streaming from unconsciousness
a small man stands on shoulders
forked tongue, halo, acrobat,
mind fresh cement, mind fresh cemented
this line permanently etched
O poem I contemplate thee
fingers crossed behind prickly head
legs crossed, brows v-furrowed
slight frown set seriously
dream flower petal
‘loves me not’ as velvet
prophecy from a little death
feet clutching tightly to the earth