Bronson Berlin.
dr. lecter, I could never
forget ya—
mornings to hell, a neatly timed
route, right down to the nail,
years later on trains from Leipzig
passing eagles; crocodrillo turbo,
lamb over rice, like ripe limes over
life.
mr. wonderful, when things
weren’t—
broken broke days, in an ornate
kreuzkölln haze, far and good
only for dolphins, sun sweltering
high, shredder’ll make me cry,
happy, modal memories, in my old
hood.