BERLIN STILLS
by Dara Mandle
On a makeshift stage
in the park, three men
rap about not working:
los, los, wir arbeitslos.
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Lindens in sequins
shimmy in the breeze.
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Sally blends brandy
and egg yolks with a look
that breaks us.
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Hot pink peonies
on the plain white desk
before the window open
onto S-Bahn tracks.
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Each night late
on the arty channel
Gerard Depardieu
smells his fingers.
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Casablanca at the Kino Blow Up
and I forget what else.
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Anxiety, old projectionist,
parts the little curtains.