There is a street in the east / that kept his name / after the wall came down. / No one asked it to. / No one asked it to stop.
What Still Remains refuses the bargain by which pain must become wisdom before it is allowed to matter. It stays with the residue: the reflex that outlives affection, the gesture that outlives its maker, the sentence that continues after belief has withdrawn from it.
Berlin enters not as setting but as a force of revision. Streets retain names, bodies learn routes, and survival changes posture so gradually that adaptation begins to impersonate healing. The poems look for the exact moment a person becomes functional inside what has altered them.
The title is neither consolation nor lament. It is evidence. Something remains—and its persistence may be tenderness, damage, memory, machinery, or all four at once.