We were like two nations
at war:
he some mysterious Greek,
I his Turkey.
He had written about me
for years
manufactured images
of my coast lines
the curves of my hills
and the inhabitants of my
murmuring foreign cities.
Sometimes he had even been among us
but never of us
distant rather
like a camera’s eye.
To be his point of focus
turned me to object.
To his images
I answered with my own:
Yes
let these international boundaries
spill over into dream fear,
let the flesh projection charge
where the light projection ends.
Time to pull a switch, baby.
This time it’s me you see,
the images removed,
tossed on the junk heap
in the forechambers of the real temple.
It is no light task to penetrate these mysteries.
To see the next image
demands the murder
of all half truths.