The city could have been called Zherono

It could have been called Syracuse

It could have no name at all

(I press my finger

to the imaginary map of the world

and you're, there, right beneath my fingertip)

Now I don't care

whether the wine was

red or white


I could

turn it into water

or pomegranate juice



I could


when the "o" is only a cry

or when the "o" is the beginning of a name

(by ear)


I could


(until the next time)

the cherry-colored atlas

And the strokes

of Chinese hieroglyphs

long as the road to the Windy Mountain.