the wallet is warm, ruddybrown, fleshily complex as an arrant organ or suave soft coprolite, baklava of the middlemanager’s luther-ordered life, clean as bleak boredom yet implicit sins are packed wherein a condom abides in a compartment beside five photos of lost kids, the cats, old boat, fat wife, a crescent worn through on the royalblue foil wrapper like islam’s caliper moon plus three hundred eighty nine euros the first two of which go to the purchase of a BZ screaming “wolf sighted on the outskirts of Berlin” plus a Ritter Sport savouring richly of sin he’ll eat on the Underground while reading it. underlit

as though by klieg light by welders he descends, chewing, the operaset of the stairsteps at the Friedrichstrasse stop to accomplished Bach on a Slavbusker’s pearl-mullioned accordion, the brown cascading fingers on toccataworn keys the North American tips with a fifty at which gypsy kicks free of stool, stands to switch to a pumping Lohengrin, the platform whelmed black in overcoats, sorrel furs, hell-blue veins, red chins, gold helms of Wagnerian hair raked by the tunneling winds

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