The reader’s home has rooms of objects from a life Tile from a basilica, ink-steam postcard from a bath-house Though rarely ever arranged to retell that life In careful chronological order. Rather they arrive Photographs of yalis, landscapes of Byzantium To be moved around, some prominent, some subtle Passenger liners like passing thoughts, terraced and framed On tables and ledges and cabinet shelves and desks Alive to the owner and in no-one’s mind, a museum. As if, never mind. Istanbul, the same last week And before the computer and the invention of the camera. Seven hundred and thirty-four pages of sexual desire Aroused, teased out, prolonged, refused, promised, fulfilled Compels the reader through pleasure and ecstasy and satisfaction And guilt, jealousy, longing, fear, secrecy, and loss Loss we do not expect even as loss takes over early As life goes on with all its daily advances and setbacks As if, never mind. Istanbul will still be the sa...