my moon is tomorrow 

time is three hours 

in difference

now we sleep

in the others’ zone 

I am in between language

amphibious and tongueless 

I only just want to  

complicate you 

heat you like an agnostic 

it is hard to not have faith 

at the breast of a fig tree

my ears clamped down to 

the pillow  

tell a whisper 

a small something 

self-persuasion of you 

loving me 

talk to me hostile 

about Istanbul

lick the buzz off my skin

sweating red

my canines on your 

ear and any lobe you fancy

the sun comprehending glass

hours after we have come ourselves

flitting sharp january angles 

moaning out for the fig tree

o the distances of this wretched country