Juan Pablo Mobili

When I travel I touch my passport often,
as if it was a talisman, or the foot of a rabbit

Abandoned buildings had ancestors that went up in flames.  Gone are the cities founded by a wolf and her two twins, and the home made out of twigs was blown away by a wolf’s twin lungs, like dandelion seeds. Buildings have nothing to reminisce about but the whistling of bricklayers, way before they were stuffed

The day belonged to the patrols and informants posing as early morning roosters, but the night was ours, distorted guitars bursting through cheap speakers, we were hummingbirds barely out of our cages, fearing to be arrested for the unlicensed nectar in our beaks, aware we’d be almost safe if we kept our humming to a