There’s a place where I’m known by another name. In which a pear floats above the make-up artist. In which lovers meet in a stolen car. In which a machine appears in the clouds. In which the dancers enchant the stargazers. In which there’s an arbitrary soldier. In which a cat follows the moon down the street. In which the girl in the tea cup is clairvoyant. In which a dressmaker is sewn into a six-foot doll. In which hour after hour the butler plays Chopin in a white empty room. In which the critics refuse the drink that might enlighten them. In which I pull down marble columns. In which the three witches play fast and loose with prostitutes and thieves. In which desire plays the drums. In which a woman bathes in the Eiffel Tower. In which an almond tree dances inside a monastery. In which a machine appears in the clouds. In which fish are little sublime lights. In which there’s no memory beyond huge days in the sun. In which a book is hidden behind a painting of a book. In which a mule is repaired with blue electricity. In which a nun carries water to an asylum. In which the orchestra is a flying saucer. In which the script is flung into the air. In which a traveler traps fairies in a jar. In which a machine appears in the clouds. In which there are mothers of giants. In which emptiness has the faintest pulse. In which particles are rumors about everything. In which I pull down marble columns. In which ghosts inhabit the klieg lights. In which the director yells cut. In which the shadows continue to act.

Lenny DellaRocca is founding editor/publisher of South Florida Poetry Journal-SoFloPoJo.