Bozza Imperfetta of Sight

The tourists arrive. Dogs roam, smaller than the strays back home, then sleep, teats exposed, on warm stone roads. The tourists snap pictures; they snap pictures of each other snapping pictures; as expected, they snap pictures of cars—a 1950s Ferrari, a red taxi with Rubenesque curves. Strangers wave, pose: A man palms a blue cake, another grips a chicken by its feet, its wings twitching. At a cathedral, the tourists enter without genuflecting; they enter reflections, each a prayer gracing the tile floors, the faces of the faithful. The tourists study their maps. 

The tourists crowd a van, drive to the countryside. There they break bread with the people—fried plantains, ropa vieja, wine. Half-hunched, a man beats time with his cane—he calls the host by name, he sings: I’ve seen your wife, sings: she’s climbed into my bed. The tourists look from man to man.

Back in the city, the tourists stroll the promenade. An arched window opens nowhere. A wall salutes the street, its scaffolding woven with weeds and vines. Farther down, boys play soccer under a stairway floating midair. Each step climbs and climbs, never arriving.

Prayer for No Country

Between my want                  and your want 

for me, I envision our universe:

a kerchief, each tip                                  gently pulled to

                   its fuchsia center, 

the cloth creased. And ironed.

You will turn over the new square, 

and repeat.                  My turn, your turn— 

and repeat, until                           we can no longer

fold the cotton.

Then, you and I

will occupy             not a country

but a hard origami knot,               each part 

of us            pressed against

the other.