Winter in Wedding.
Maybe a fourth floor flat, Sunday morn, with the katze creeping
over wilhelminian floor boards, snug and warm, by grandiose rows;
saplings and plants, stacked in a noble group, an icy draft yapping,
a vinyl doing rounds, in most obedient cycles.
Maybe a brisk walk by the Panke, hund to the pocketed hand,
pulling on towards squirrel, and feral furred, stray things,
vermillion-tinged tea, flea market, warming the foreigner through,
snow-swept peruse, past Osloer, candle-lit, cold amber for one.