Beneath the frozen basement
of an industrial imagination
lies a space under the Earth.
Sharply it leads away from reality.
A hand held up in the dark:
Snapping fingers.
A cigarette appears,
and its tip disappears
between cracked lips.
What did the Germans call this
as they muttered poems to themselves?
Dunkelheit, Finsternis?
Something like this?
The scent of opium is near,
hookah bubbling into an old addict.
A flame opines that it should be seen,
the eyes take it in,
and then all is darkness.