He is uniformed—

head shaved neat 

brows dog-eared—

clinking his frosted glass with a foreigner,

an amber spirit frothing over.

November in Berlin, 

Cold air oscillating.

At the foot of the wall 

Guards stand clement—

Dark guns heavy in their dark gloved hands.

Faces taut,

eyes copper.

Boots crunch over shapes

of spit and mucilage, stray

shards of old smoke bottles.

Charlie lebt, 

The crowd cries.

The night is raw-

Arms screwed tight

‘round others shoulders, 

The world twisting into a white-hot fever

The American slings his ice pick

into the wall the next morning, 

Shoes deep in brown sludge.

It will outlive us.