She’s reading a book for

Strategies on how to lead her life

After forty.

The boy who swam in the Bosphorus

Bounces the fütbol on his knees

As many times as he can until

He drops it.

When she comes to a conclusion,

When he turns with the ferry horn,

A wave splashes over the bank of the shore,

As the German takes a photograph of the bridge,

Behind them, unaware,

Of the connection between the two.

 
The salty air in your lungs

That pulls your hair back and over your eyes

And two cubes of sugar in your black tea

Form a constellation,

Which doesn’t require stars

In moving pictures,

Or stories of Gods,

Or past generations.