funny but long after our Istanbul flight,

   i could still hear that peculiar

      turkish singing, that voice

         straining towards an uncertain note

            threatening to crack somewhere

               at some fragile point,

                  taking precarious dips suddenly

               sullenly into a lowdown sensual

            whine, spread thin like dispersed

         reflections of homing radar signals

      from some strange shore,

   resonating notes

      left along some steep ridges

         coming on coming on almost gone

            and petering off . . .

as if at any time at all

   this voice redolent of bubbling thick

      Espresso and sharp profiles

         and deep-set eyes is bound to

            change color and range

like overlying remains of odors

of ruined temples and buried dreams.

by Ophelia A. Dimalanta