There must be another Berlin like this one with its television tower pricking the sky at night, a U-Bahn to carry our hopes to their scheduled station, underground bodegas selling bread and roses. The cabana bars, the endless streets, the brief cafes—all of it the same, only in that Berlin I learned German, kissed you through the green nights of late summer.
In that sure and impossible Berlin, I’d have left nothing unsaid, and moreover I wouldn’t have left.
Weil es nämlich irreführend und gefährlich ist, wenn etwas U-Bahn heißt, das über unsren Köpfen ratter… Element of Crime (Alle Vier Minuten)
The underground rumbles above our heads –– sometimes even names fail us and we are left without words.
The track lifts above parks, across rivers, through dim boroughs of graffitied shops, past backyard vegetable gardens.
Maps give unconditional assurance that the line will circle back to where it started and we ride with blind faith in that future tense,
railed over the rooftops of this short city and also trundled beneath because there is a reason for the name.
Destiny is so close to destination and transport arrives every four minutes.