Before the shutters cancel night,
my gaze travels through indigo:
the Bosphorus outshines bazaars
with carbuncles and emeralds.
Drawing closer he can share
the view, across my shoulder:
"Perhaps you miss your home?"
That night, I can't recall
it clearly. "No, I've never
loved my city, so how could
I miss it?"
"Your city is inside you,"
he said then. "When I was
young, the navy took me
far from home. At times,
in other towns I glimpsed
a fragment of my own..."
Through once-familiar streets
I drive. Acrylic pigment smears
in rain; lights elongate; my city's
glamour fails to capture me.
Fluid images in glass,
double-exposed photographs,
the other city swims, subliminal -
drowned gems and crescent moons
coruscating secretly inside me.
Istanbul
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103030600524
Свидетельство о публикации №103030600524
Рецензии
На это произведение написаны 3 рецензии, здесь отображается последняя, остальные - в полном списке.