by M.P. Powers
We sit outside a little kneipe
on Luxenberger Straße, the table full of beers
and oyster shells, neon lights
growing larger in the dusk.
There’s just a little pale-blue
left in the sky, a touch of rose, and a wandering
The sidewalks move silently with people,
some appearing almost weightless
and gliding along;
others are the earth itself.
All are in the midst
of some great conflagration
they have no control.
And as we sit here on the edge of traffic,
night comes bearing fiery
tongs, and bat guana,
and poisonous flowers.
A Mexican bloodleg
tarantula scuttles over the keys
of an accordion,
the music reaching out to the heavens,
coming back empty-handed.
Taillights streak past like red auroras.
M.P. Powers is an American expat living in Berlin. His poetry can be found in The New York Quarterly, Word Riot, Menacing Hedge, Foundling Review, A Clean, Well-lighted Place, and many other fine places. More info here: http://poets.nyq.org/poet/mppowers