It is
in the everyday making of things-
of routine-
at the set hour,
we have each other, now
you with your hubris brush,
I
guard the Bosporus
Strait to my wound,
indifferent palette, hovering
in the air, you paint
my wounds,
chest, prolonged forehead,
I frown,
ask myself,
when did this vapid dullness,
a dull shade of blue become
the colour of love?
