I see you there.
Your empty mouth.
Your long stare.
The precise way the makers
combed your mane.

Old stone.
Sometimes your body
is a body
and sometimes
it is a dead tree.

Old friend.
You don’t have any hair.

In Turkey,
where you used to be
you’re not.
You’re here, gazing
lidlessly –
like you’re the coast they winched you from

and I’m the sea.