BRUNA MORI
Another Place
Today,
I am visiting the citizens
of Alba,
who wait with mouths of
flowers
to honor the respiration of
sleeping animals,
marking roses in roads,
past extravagant marches,
accompanied by a fumbling ballet.
The night scribes word for
word.
The night writes the night
more beautifully in the night
of those that are gone.
In it, a blue dress sings,
and underneath the dress
is a green heart
with echoes of the latitudes
tattooed over a real heart.
Over the heart tattoo,
a cheap amulet is lifted
like gold, nimbly to lips,
then starts a voice
echoing into melting eyes.
The
music emits ingenious colors,
imploring llamas and armadillos,
the goats, also.
The song is not an
invocation,
only names forgotten.
It travels distances,
dissipating
just south of here.
The here no one has heard
of
because this Alba doesn’t exist.