the regional line puffs
and he opens the doors
to sunflower and klein apfelle
and wooden chairs and a green that i can translate.
stale cigarette cramps my leaning
and a voice i have heard so often herding my brothers
chatters around me.
the street is german summer
and i am dreaming.
the kleinmarkethulle is layered with fluffy produce.
i have not seen even these colors on the vine.
lamb and pork and anything else you can butcher
bleats behind windows in wiener and wurst.
souvenir tshirts laugh in deutsch.
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