By Steve Rubinstein
Still awake and on fire at 4 a.m.
we are insects buzzing
in palace trees below
between lintel and sill
dust settling, pollen
on forgotten wine.
We pause in silence
rise to a clear morning
wail beneath the Blue Mosque
amid the old city atop
a jumbled scaffold of saffron beams.
Blue skates carve helium turns overhead.
Dawn emerges ochre and steaming.
The Bosporus is a widening shadow of freight.