The terminal is useless
if we are not going to meet
our memories shouldering
cider and chips as they slide
from the ferry. Every morning
I iron memories of my old love,
straight, flat and pregnant
with childish questions
I dreamed then forgot.
I keep her photos ready, alien
on the blue bedspread as pirates
on a quiet blue lake,
like a crossword stuck
in the corner of my life
would she like to answer
my call for a third night with Nastenka?
All the facades in Baharive street are so clever
they know she still hides herself in brown cardigans
but I wonder why she won’t go out
when there are no clouds
in her pockets.
When we finished our final tea
Istanbul quit repeating itself
and I took off my redundancies.
Reality can be softened
by daises, cut and waiting
in a vase I never bought
and just now
the first rain
of autumn begins.
Trans. by Ryan van Winkle