I dream of indexes
and of whim /
and of surreptitious sleights sliding with the trees
of reckoning, and oblivion
and salvation at /
the fingertips of
a Bravarian woman holding in her arms
ten mugs of frothing ale.
And of blondes
snickering from /
the most withdrawn eyes mankind
can ever permit.
Of dark streets
and empty highways /
boiling down to one simple premise:
of possibilities.
In the strangest of nights,
I dream of Germany.