Berlin Exile

The skin is taught across the youthful face
Of the unwaveringly present tense,
The nightly pack-a-day unfiltered race
Toward lives led underneath the white-smoke fence

Between mistranslating the predicate,
And conjugating love with two more beers.
The fence top climbs into a figure eight,
That lasts as long as over-crowded cheers

For city-paid magicians stopping time
And care, with purples, reds, and burgundies,
And yellowed herringbone in soothing strokes

That cross a healthy Rubicon and mime,
"Now, now! Here you see the linden trees.
Forget the falling kiss of homeward oaks."