Postcard from Istanbul

Shut my eyes:

day swings way out of reach down a pathway to the past spliced
with instant moments like fallen leaves or so much litter.

Eyes wide shut:

I glimpse snapshots of dead hands, once buried twice reviewed
in rooms no longer here , where sleep masks nothing.

Tomorrow still unused:

singing portions of revolution, and I cling to the old, frozen by
disuse as if I might snap under new movement.

Shut my eyes:

day swings away, you won’t ever come to call: plus jamais
postcard from Istanbul, Bosphorus bickers , you, who were

everything but a figment of my ever present future.

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