‘can you show me on se mappe' Poem by Uljana Wolf

we wanted to lean over this phrase like a charted city, to make a point, create a mouthspace, myth of hear or say: hier, in this net of tongues, one path was well-sprung, a mistake, mystique. lingua franca stuck on our foreheads, almost touching and already legend: you are here, ich bin wer, a game of routes, but whatever we said the words did not arrive. instead the red lines snapped, rolling back into their very own names: murmuring with the greek one, chartis, carta with the italian, and karte with me, meaning my card: looks like we're here. almost true freunde. and so we found, with the wrong sign, our site, and the rest of the city we folded, in the manner of this country, as they say, into maps.