Today I am a rouged dowager. After getting up, I, maid of the paternity lie, will climb on the face, powder on the cheeks and the palm and paint a little rouge. I have come out from the refuge of Bilkent. To break wax to break the oozing from the nose I have covered my face with white cake make-up. Patches of cherry rouge on my cheeks and lower lip. Miles and miles to the stepping stone I am in the hot house with a white kilt. I confuse my lover for the kettle drums beating for Ramadan. I have slept on my rectum at Eski Yeni. The Turkish eye has followed me. A very fat man is repairing the highways. Oh little girl little girl little girl the men here are lonesome too. Looting is a purple pose. The Greeks have called on the saints but the see-saws are rusting. I meant to write east but mis-typed feast. The photons of happiness are scraped from a licking horse. The bark on the trees are forming a painting. This is where I sleep. Ears and hands are hazards. The Turkish salute is a hand on the breast. Between continents and between loves I’m working with two blunt pencils. The windmills are squeezed against the mountains. A bright fluid circulates among the soldiers. They are roasting rebels in the snuffbox. I’m carrying a flagpole without a flag.