A cold and miserable morning,
with drizzle as fine as flour
drifting through the shop doors
before the crushing hour,
welcomed by the sweet warmth
of heaters on at full power.

Seated in the café
with tongue being bought alive
by coffee as strong as weak chilli.
I see no trams outside;

the rush hour has somehow not started
the square's as empty as night.
A statue gazes forlornly
at Darmstadt's concrete might.

image: po

Dylan Harris

it's my hands
my difficulty with melancholy
hence the coldness
fear in flight, god
dog sea
push pop

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