In the Maelström

First the fissure, then the fall

one little cog has given up

a bit of iron in a pool of oil

the concrete floor is weeping

underneath: a breath of earth

you attune your ear to whispers

a spiral tugging at your sleeve,

a pulsar’s secret murmur

lying limp on every tongue

of every stranger in the street

it’s just a tale, a star’s demise

I’ll have cognac with café

a cube of sugar for the bitter,

 another for the bite