Call Light leaves earlier each day, not quite noticed slipping behind densely packed limestone, carved acanthus and grape vines disappearing with the sun as a call chanted, calculated rhythmic poetry that might be Cage or Queneau, sustained as the minute or two determined for prayer, a voice in the air joined late by another, lapping sounds, as if one could hear two oceans meet like the distant Baltic and North seas in Skagen, misread even by those standing at the cold point where the winds blow East to this other sound so many know, expect, and regard no more than horns honked at every roundabout and woman walking, compulsive chatter untranslatable, not that poetry of the air timed to the earth’s rotation and changing light until day enters night making black thread again distinguishable from white.
Swimming to Syria 24
