untitled from Paul Celan

“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

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