Convento Santo Domingo
Hay un lugar lejos de toda ciudad.
— Blanca Varela
Windows ring the bell tower.
In a recreated room I write
letters to my dead so Martín,
doctor who walked
through walls, might cross
solidities and find them.
The bell tower. Yellow archways
on oxidized black. I don’t want
to climb the tower stairs. Some
certainty tells me I can’t survive it, stairs
that present as exposed ribcage —
Lima from above. Rooftops
compile their own color, hide
their grey and their broken
light. A sun-round with its edges
lost. Pink and yellow facades, balconies
built and rebuilt y ya llegamos a
la carretera donde uno se da
cuenta: I am apart from this city. Every
city. I am not who I am and maybe
this is vertigo, terror, I don’t know
the history of that building, terror,
I can’t map space, terror, teal,
yellow, brown a step away from
black. There is a place far
from all city. Not any city,
all. This is the translation.
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