a terminus spews travelers out into the city’s streets i jump a line and fly the five to where le nuit debout resides, encircled by black uzis from my camp four stories high i count the stairs and steps to anselm kiefer’s looming lines that suck me in and spin my brain through barren scenes of leaden books, burned and black, that dot a paint-encrusted field of snow paul celan recites his strophes the muse climbs up me silently i am alone and wonder if my words shall survive the summer