It’s almost not there
Berlin builds, forgets itself.
Ost: A bitter pils
Looking for Schliemann
Who searched for Troy. Vast hallways
Egypt will kill me
Just fragments remain
In Mary’s face such sorrow
His eyes still open
Old Mies van der Rohe
If you make a large clean space
They’ll fill it with crap
Let’s judge our cities
Anew. Old bikes and hijabs
And naked children
Nightingales at dusk
With wine and food we listen
As the wall comes down
Summer. Berlin sweats
Seek cool breezes under trees
Listen: dervish songs
So Berlin is poor
And bright wildflowers spill from
Untended spaces
Hurry through this rain
Find that cafe, where we ate
Wild garlic pesto
Gnocchi, salad, wine.
How can you know any place
Without a kitchen?
We are barbarians
Killing, farting, & shouting
Like empty giants
Photos and text by Rohan Quinby, the photo editor of carte blanche.