This morning, seabirds shriek like Ganymede,
the minarets of Beyoglu clear their throats
of ancient static. Men shift from remote
causeways through the Doppler-echo streets
and coalesce in prayer. I didn’t sleep
and Hassan never called.
The bakeries
on Istiklal Caddesi, their refractory-
tiled walls igniting embers deep
inside the ashes, braid a strange croissant.
Reflected in their dusty windows, gaunt,
exhausted, I look lost. A wedding guest
neglected by the groom. The call to prayer
continues. Choirs of ancient record players
speak to God in fractured anapest.
February 17, 2007 at 8:52 am |
🙂 glad i know he found you eventually.
February 18, 2007 at 4:25 am |
Wonderfully set in place…So many sights, sounds, and tastes here…. and you in contrast to it.