Up near those old city walls, the old walls of Constantinople, the greasy cobblestones, the grime, the slabs of marble lying around, little workshops, washing draped on the old walls: a sense of descending into a shanty town.
“Where you from,” this wasn’t a kilim seller, this gaunt young man had other agendas.
Our answer of England, confirmed his fears.
“DANGER.”
A hesitation of reorientation: push on against his advice? Better not, thank him and return by the same route we travelled out on.
A sense of life falling away.
Fingertip Tipping
The problem is, thought moves in many directions
And received wisdom tells us
We must travel by bone structure rather than by appearance.
No, you’re right, it’s not as easy as it sounds;
Better not attempt a decision.
Fingertips just tipping the edge of the fruit bowl
Tipping a precarious balance
On the edge of antique polished wood
Ignoring the television
And the goalkeeper’s gloved fingers just tipping the football
But not enough to keep it out of his rotting fruit-fly secrets;
His lust for obscenity.