You’re far away from your country where I am.
Day by day, my poems
begin to resemble letters lost in the post:

You’ve fallen asleep on your long, banana-coloured couch,
your bun is undone, your glasses are about to fall from your fingers,
four of five apples on your plate have been eaten,
a book has a hairbrush between pages to mark where you were,
a baltic blue blanket over your knees.
Maybe you are dreaming a scene from a play with old voices:

You’re in our apartment, your mother
hasn’t gone mad yet, my brother hasn’t been conscripted.
Zeki Müren sings “You’re far away now” on the radio.
In a minute, they will cut off the song and announce
that military forces are taking control
for the safety and security of the country.
In a minute, you will say, “I have to go away”
“I can’t come, because the Turkish...”

You have seen this play a thousand times
but, as you are about to wake up,
for the first time you will notice a telegram
on the gramophone:

../don’t wake up../wind../
will drop a dry leaf../on your chest
/like news from me./

You’re far away from your country which is in chaos.
I’m alive for now
in love, in doubt, and immune to being parted.