poetry

And then, the If’s

photo credit to ~gocrackthesky

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the most withdrawn eyes mankind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.

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