In Anatolia by Christopher Middleton

Slit eye, so young, in your place,
I mean no harm, but see you
And am close, in this light, so
Close. Food, knives, a red floor peak
And are gone in your flesh glow. The curve
Of a bird comes back to me.

Yes, it was big, as birds go. Blue wings,
A throat, I think, rain-rose, and a crest.
All at once it flew out of no place.
It perched on a plinth of white stone
To flute the one song it knew.

Noon: heat in this old town spent
Long breaths on rock. Wells dry. A few
Cubes of shade. Candid weeds made sure
The song could last. Pure notes
Go well with dust; in the doom of that high place
Time showed its drift.

On that plinth it put down claws, a bird,
Spikes - it told the air
What it meant: io dio, it sang. Io dio.
You will not say it. Your hair is
Coiffed to fall, soft, across your face,
As if your face should not be shown here -

A wing, gloss, when
You shake your head like that you hide
Most, at least, of your face. Wax
Boys, they sit, one by one, dumb, with hands
They fold and twist, here, at this feast:
You do not foot their bill.

Rich you might be, or
Not, but are you here? Your place seems
Close to oak boards, wild rice, raw fish.
That blue bird, you are with it.
Still you have ways to resist
Dead mouths, our small norms, blood that froze,

So much heart ache. Why, white stones
Once were grooved, to hold up roofs. White
Stone, fierce hands hewed it
Into forms. Through the fresh
Stone robes a god flew, those days, a pulse
It was thought. Worse off by far,
We have none or put ours in the wrong place.

Stand there and speak. Tell
Why no springs flow there. Why no folks walk
The old streets. Did the no-good bird
Eat the gods up? Let your wing fall
To hide your face. We do not know
What now to fear most.